THE 

ONG  LANE'S 
TURNING 


HALLIE  ERMINIE 
RIVES 


THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 


BOOKS  BY 

HALLIE  ERMINIE  RIVES 
(MRS.  POST  WHEELER) 


THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

THE  VALIANTS  OF  VIRGINIA 

THE  KINGDOM  OF  SLENDER  SWORDS 

SATAN  SANDERSON 

THE  CASTAWAY 

HEARTS  COURAGEOUS 

A  FURNACE  OF  EARTH 

TALES  FROM  DICKENS 


Her  lips  trembled,  but  she  spoke  in  a  clear  under- 
tone, audible  only  to  him,  which  faltered  the 
merest  trifle  (Page  316.) 


THE 
LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 


BY 
HALLIE  ERMINIE  RIVES 

(Mas.  POST  WHEELER) 

Author  of  "Satan  Sanderson"  "Hearts  Courageous,' 
"The  Valiants  of  Virginia,"  etc. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

FRANCES  ROGERS 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1917 


COPYRIGHT.  1916,  1917 

BT  DODD.  MBAD  AND  COMPANY.  IMC. 

M  "The  Heart  ol  a  Man" 

COPYRIGHT,  1917 
BY   DODD.    MEAD  AND   COMPANY.   INC. 


CONTENTS 

AFTER  PAGE 

I  THE  COUNSEL  FOR  THE  DEFENCE  .     .       i 

II    A  MAN  AND  A  WOMAN 15 

III  THE  AWAKENING 28 

IV  THE  PRODIGAL 35 

V    THE  UNLAID  GHOST 42 

VI  THE  JUDGE  SITS  IN  THE  LAMPLIGHT  .     52 

VII    ARROWS   OF   DESIRE 58 

VIII    THE  THRUST 65 

IX  THE  TURN  OF  THE  LONG  LANE     .     .     79 

X    AFTER  A  YEAR     .     . 86 

XI  CRAIG  FINDS  His  WEAPON  ....     94 

XII  A  HOSTAGE  TO  THE  BOTTLE  .     .     .     .103 

XIII  THE  HEART  OF  A  MAN 114 

XIV  THE  HANDWRITING  ON  THE  WALL  .     .123 
XV    THE  ONLY  WAY 133 

XVI    DERELICT    ... 138 

XVII  LIKE  A  THIEF  IN  THE  NIGHT  .     .     .146 

XVIII    THE   PRICE 156 

XIX  PADDY  THE  BRICK  INTERVENES  .     .     .165 

XX  WHAT  MATTERED  MOST      .     .     .     .170 

XXI    CRAIG'S  WAY 175 

XXII    HARRY  DECIDES 182 

XXIII  THE  BROKEN  PICTURE 186 

XXIV  THE  WOMAN  WHO  KNEW  ....  194 
XXV    ON  TRIAL 203 

XXVI  THE  HAUNTER  OF  THE  SHADOW          .211 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXVII  THE  END  OF  THE  JOURNEY  .     .     .     .218 

XXVIII  THE  MAN  IN  THE  WHEELED  CHAIR     .  221 

XXIX    THE  LONE  BATTLE 227 

XXX    THE  GIPSY  RING 238 

XXXI    AMBUSH 247 

XXXII  THE  COMING  OF  JOHN  STARK    .     .     .257 

XXXIII  THE  UNDERSTUDY 264 

XXXIV  THE  CRUCIBLE 272 

XXXV  SANCTUARY.     .   -i.ou  <<&    0     .     .     .278 

XXXVI    JUBILEE  JIM'S  JOURNEY 287 

XXXVII  THE  CALL  .     .     ^.v^J    V* ':.     .     .  296 

XXXVIII  THE  CHALLENGE 301 

XXXIX    THE  JAILBIRD 311 

XL    GENTLEMEN  ALL 320 

XLI    DARK  DAYS 326 

XLII    THE  MENDED  ROAD 331 

XLIII    THE  PITFALL 338 

XLIV    THE  LIGHTED  FUSE 343 

XLV    THE  CHASM 350 

XLVI    CRAIG  STRIKES 356 

XL VII  WITH  His  BACK  TO  THE  WALL  ...  360 

XLVIII  THE  HEART  OF  A  WOMAN     .     .      .      .373 

XLIX  THE  GOVERNOR  TAKES  A  HAND  .     .     .381 

L    REVELATION 386 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Her  lips  trembled,  but  she  spoke  in  a  clear  un- 
dertone, audible  only  to  him,  which  faltered 
the  merest  trifle.  (Page  316)  .  .  .  Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

"  I  have  answered  you,"  she  replied,  "  once  and  for  all. 

You  will  please  consider  it  final  " 62 

He  turned  his  head  and  saw  the  figure  in  the  doorway. 

"  Echo!  "  he  cried  and  rose  to  his  feet  .      .      .      .130 

All  at  once  the  hound  flung  up  his  great  head  with  a 
low  howl,  then,  crouching,  licked  the  nerveless 
hand  that  hung  down 282 


THE  LONG  LANE'S 
TURNING 

CHAPTER  I 

THE   COUNSEL   FOR  THE  DEFENCE 

THE  dark  was  falling  over  the  court-room. 
A  lurid  ray  of  the  setting  sun  gleamed  redly 
on  the  dust-streaked  window  panes,  and 
struggled  disconsolately  with  the  melancholy  gleam 
of  the  oil  lamps  that  an  awkward  attendant  with 
creaking  foot-leather  had  laboriously  lighted  in 
their  wall-brackets.  Their  pale  radiance  gleamed 
on  the  painted  faces  of  dead  jurists  that  looked 
down  from  fly-specked  canvases  on  the  walls  and 
was  reflected  from  the  mass  of  moving,  living  faces 
that  filled  the  room,  whose  eyes  gazed  alternately 
at  the  Judge's  vacant  seat,  and  at  the  empty  railed 
space  that  had  penned  in  the  restless  jury  now  con- 
sidering their  verdict  in  an  upper  room  —  to  return 
again  and  again  to  the  spot  where  sat  the  man 
over  whose  dingy  case  a  medley  of  voices  had  de- 
claimed and  wrangled  throughout  that  southern 
spring  day. 

He  sat  slouched  in  his  chair,  his  narrow,  faded- 
blue   eyes,   strained   and   frightened,   fixed   on   the 


2         THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

empty  jury-box,  his  uncertain  hand  lifting  from  time 
to  time  to  give  a  swift,  furtive  touch  to  his  collar  or 
a  thrust  to  his  wiry,  sand-coloured  hair.  In  the 
pallid  lamp-light  the  hard  sneer  that  had  curved 
his  lips  during  the  dragging  trial  had  faded  and  his 
face  seemed  all  at  once  piteous  and  younger. 

To  a  stranger  there  would  have  seemed  little  in 
the  circumstances  to  inspire  the  popular  interest  the 
full  room  betokened.  The  accused  was  a  rough 
sawyer,  known  to  his  fellows  of  the  logging  camp 
as  "  Paddy  the  Brick,"  with  a  history  of  sluggish- 
ness and  inebriety  behind  him.  The  crime  of  which 
he  stood  charged  was  the  theft  of  a  comrade's  earn- 
ings, the  story  merely  one  of  those  sordid  dramas  of 
menial  life  which  were  so  familiar.  The  evidence, 
though  purely  circumstantial,  was,  to  a  casual  eye, 
sufficiently  conclusive. 

Yet  in  the  minds  of  most  of  those  who  had  filled 
the  dingy  court  room  during  the  two  days  just 
passed,  there  had  been  until  the  last  hour  a  general 
expectation  that  the  man  would  be  cleared.  This 
had  been  based  upon  nothing  save  the  common 
knowledge  that  his  counsel  was  Harry  Sevier. 

The  latter  had  never  failed  to  justify  the  expecta- 
tions that  had  habitually  heralded  his  doings. 
Young,  likable,  perfectly  equipped  and  knowing  his 
southern  world,  he  had  returned,  after  a  half  dozen 
years  of  foreign  schooling,  to  step  into  a  social 
niche  readily  accorded  him  by  those  who  had  seen 
little  of  him  since  boyhood.  His  grey  eyes  and 


THE  COUNSEL  FOR  DEFENCE         3 

crisp,  dark  beard,  had  been  distinguishing  marks  of 
forebears  whose  lives  had  been  lived  in  that  neigh- 
bourhood and  who  had  left  their  vivid  impress  upon 
the  institutions  of  their  time;  statesmen,  diplomats 
and  soldiers  had  been  of  that  line,  and  he  himself, 
with  his  characteristic  mannerisms,  his  unimpeach- 
able grooming,  his  nice  observance  of  the  social 
code,  had  come  to  be  regarded  as  the  perfect  pat- 
tern of  his  type.  Left  an  orphan  at  an  early  age, 
he  had  inherited  a  comfortable  property  and  the 
income  of  a  city  block,  and  he  spent  the  money  ju- 
diciously, if  lavishly.  His  Panhard  was  the  swift- 
est car  in  town,  as  his  offices  were  the  most  sump- 
tuous, though  ostentatiously  simple  in  appointment. 
He  had  a  Japanese  valet,  and  the  "  at  homes  " 
which  he  occasionally  gave  in  his  bachelor  apart- 
ment, though  they  might  be  dominated  "  pink  teas  " 
by  the  envious  unbidden,  were  affairs  to  which  an 
entree  was  a  hallmark.  He  maintained  also  a  shoot- 
ing-box on  an  upper  slope  of  the  Blue  Ridge  — 
a  comfortable  bungalow  set  in  a  hundred  acres  of 
wilderness  —  whither  of  autumns  he  and  a  dozen 
other  choice  spirits  were  wont  to  fare  for  a  fort- 
night's tramping  and  fishing,  sleeping  on  pungent 
hemlock  boughs  and  eating  homely  food  cooked  by 
the  single  negro  servant  who  lived  there  as  care- 
taker. He  had  a  gift  for  private  theatricals  —  he 
was  in  constant  demand  of  the  Amateur  Dramatic 
Club  —  and  had  more  than  a  dilettante  apprecia- 
tion of  music  and  art. 


4         THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

As  regards  his  profession,  he  had  injected  into 
the  somewhat  cut-and-dried  legal  life  of  the  old 
Capital  an  unusual  and  winning  element  of  person- 
ality and  a  method  at  variance  with  established 
usage.  His  very  eccentricities  had  set  him  apart 
from  the  mass,  who  were  so  glamoured  with  the 
sordid  things  of  life;  and  the  apparent  contempt  for 
material  reward  with  which  he  defended  poor  and 
unknown  clients  as  readily  as  rich  and  influential 
ones  had  its  appeal  to  a  class  which  possessed 
imagination  and  ideals.  There  had  seldom  been  a 
case  in  which  he  had  not  successfully  employed  a 
curious  subterranean  logic  —  an  apparently  wilful 
insistence  upon  what  seemed  at  first  glance  the  un- 
vital  and  immaterial  —  as  a  preliminary  to  a  swift 
•volte-face  by  which  he  turned  the  evidence  at  a  new 
and  unexpected  angle  of  inference,  and  drove  home 
the  doubt  with  a  brilliant  display  of  oratory  which 
captivated  and  —  for  the  moment  —  convinced. 
In  the  four  years  in  which  he  had  stamped  his  indi- 
viduality upon  the  town,  not  only  had  he  never  lost 
a  criminal  case,  but  he  had  created  a  certain  convic- 
tion that  a  trial  in  which  he  figured  would  offer  un- 
mistakable elements  of  surprise  and  entertainment. 
So  that  the  Criminal  Court  had  come,  in  a  way,  to 
be  the  fashion,  and  the  sombre  chambers  of  justice 
saw  many  an  assemblage  that  would  have  graced 
another  sort  of  gathering. 

Seldom,  however,  on  this  day  had  Harry's  glance 
through  his  gold-rimmed  eye-glasses  wandered  to 


THE  COUNSEL  FOR  DEFENCE         5 

the  benches.  With  many  there  he  had  danced  and 
golfed  and  bridged  a  hundred  times.  That,  how- 
ever, had  been  play;  this,  which  had  come  to  furnish 
another  and  quite  as  fascinating  a  sort  of  entertain- 
ment for  them,  was  what  he  had  chosen  to  make  the 
more  serious  business  —  in  so  far  as  anything  had 
been  serious  to  him  —  of  his  life.  So  that  his  ap- 
parent disregard  of  this  tribute  to  his  personality  for 
the  sober  business  in  hand,  set  over  against  the 
palpable  frivolity  of  purpose  that  actuated  the  moi- 
ety of  his  audience,  was,  after  all,  only  another  indi- 
cation to  them  of  that  fine  sense  of  the  fitting  for 
which  his  world  admired  him. 

Through  the  long  morning  the  evidence  had  ac- 
cumulated. One  by  one  the  merciless  rivets  had 
been  driven  home  by  the  prosecuting  attorney.  The 
chain  of  evidence  seemed  flawless.  And  Harry 
Sevier's  cross-examination  had  seemed  scarcely  more 
than  perfunctory  —  had  appeared  somehow  to  miss 
that  subtle  and  pregnant  suggestion,  that  longer 
reach  that  heretofore  had  uncovered  a  hitherto  un- 
noted but  baffling  doubt.  Yet  to  those  who  knew 
him  this  but  pointed  to  a  more  effective  climax,  a 
more  engrossing  sensation  when  the  psychological 
moment  should  arrive  and  that  appealing  figure 
arise  to  insert  the  nicely  calculated  spoke  in  the 
wheel  that,  under  the  manipulation  of  the  state's  at- 
torney, was  rolling  so  swiftly  in  its  ominous  course; 
and  on  the  back-benches,  where  sat  a  group  of  mem- 
bers of  the  Country  Club,  a  whispered  bet  that  the 


6         THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

accused  this  time  would  not  get  off,  found  as  usual 
no  taker. 

Evidence  finished,  the  Court  rose  for  a  recess  and 
Harry  vanished  through  a  side-door.  Ten  minutes 
later  he  was  in  his  office.  He  vouchsafed  no  word 
to  the  clerk  who  sat  in  the  outer  room,  but  passed 
quickly  through  to  the  inner  sanctum  and  closed  and 
locked  the  door.  The  self-control  bred  of  the 
strenuous  occupation  of  the  court  room  had  slipped 
now  from  his  face,  leaving  it  suddenly  strained. 
There  were  moist  drops  upon  his  forehead  but  his 
hands  were  arid  and  dry.  He  drew  the  blind  to 
shut  out  the  dull,  grey,  winter  light  and  switched  on 
the  electric  desk-lamp,  and  as  he  did  so  his  eyes 
turned  stealthily  to  the  wall  —  to  a  locked  cabinet 
whose  key  was  in  his  pocket. 

They  turned  again  almost  immediately  to  the 
baize-covered  desk,  where  stood  a  plain,  flat  silver 
frame.  It  held  a  photograph  of  a  portrait  painted 
by  Sargent  which  had  been  a  salon  favourite  of  a  few 
years  before.  It  was  that  of  a  young  girl,  seated 
and  leaning  intently  forward  from  an  arm  chair. 
One  hand  was  at  her  throat,  the  other  dropped 
against  the  dusky  shoulder  of  a  dog  stretched  at  her 
feet,  and  in  her  dark  eyes  was  the  eternal  question 
which  maidenhood  asks  of  life.  The  lines  of  the 
face  were  cameo-like,  and  its  southern  beauty  held 
that  particular  blend  of  ingeniousness  and  hauteur 
that  is  the  result  of  the  selection  and  inbreeding  of 
generations.  He  stood  still  a  moment,  looking  fix- 


THE  COUNSEL  FOR  DEFENCE         7 

edly  at  it,  his  tongue  touching  his  lips,  before  he 
crossed  the  room  and  turned  the  picture  face-down 
upon  the  desk.  He  almost  ran  to  the  cabinet,  un- 
locked its  mirrored  door,  and  took  from  it  a  bottle 
and  a  glass.  He  poured  out  a  full  goblet  of  the 
gurgling  liquid  and  drank  it  off.  Then  he  drew  a 
long  breath. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "Til  lie  to  myself  no  more! 
I've  got  to  have  it  or  throw  up  the  sponge.  It  was 
my  own  once,  that  wonderful  gift  —  whatever  it  is. 
Once  it  was  my  own  brain,  unhelped,  that  sent  the 
glow  to  my  heart  and  the  fire  to  my  tongue  —  till 
words  had  glorious  colours  and  pictures  painted 
themselves  out  of  nothing.  Once  it  was  my  own 
mind  that  saw  a  problem  as  clear  as  crystal.  But  I 
wasn't  content.  I  wanted  the  short  cut,  and  this 
showed  me  the  way.  And  now  —  now  —  I've 
dropped  the  reins.  It's  not  Harry  Sevier  that  wins 
cases  —  it's  that  bottle !  " 

He  began  to  stride  up  and  down  the  narrow  room ; 
deep  lines  had  etched  themselves  in  the  mobile  face. 
"  There  was  the  Davencourt  Case,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. "  Not  a  shred  of  decent  evidence  to  go  on, 
and  the  whole  court  packed  with  prejudice,  and  he 
was  as  guilty  as  the  devil.  Yet  I  won!  That  was 
only  a  year  ago,  but  I  couldn't  do  it  now  —  without 
what  is  in  that  decanter!  All  day  yesterday  I  was 
heavy,  my  mind  was  as  blank  as  a  glacier.  In  the 
cross-examination  I  couldn't  see  a  foot  before  me. 
But  for  this  half-hour  it  would  go  hard  with  my 


8         THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

client  at  the  finish.  As  it  is  I  wouldn't  want  a  better 
foil  than  old  Maitland  for  the  prosecution.  How 
he  has  slaved  over  his  witnesses!  I  might  have 
made  some  of  the  testimony  that  sounded  so  damn- 
ing look  like  a  cocked-hat  if  I  had  gone  about  it  in 
his  laborious  way.  For  this  *  Paddy  the  Brick  '  has 
plenty  of  friends,  for  all  his  crookedness.  Half  the 
logging-camp,  apparently,  chipped  in  to  make  up  my 
retaining-fee.  But  pshaw!  what's  the  use?  I 
can  get  him  off  without  it.  In  the  last  analysis  it's 
feeling,  not  facts,  that  will  sway  them  —  feeling  first, 
and  then  conscience.  Every  man  of  them  must  see 
himself,  first  shivering  in  the  shoes  of  my  thief,  and 
then  wearing  the  Judge's  gown.  When  the  psycho- 
logical moment  comes  there  is  only  to  drive  home 
the  fallibility  of  circumstantial  evidence  and  sear 
those  twelve  slow-going,  matter-of-fact  brains  with 
a  sense  of  the  inherent  perversity  of  appearances !  " 
He  smiled  bitterly.  "  Especially,"  he  added, 
"  when  there's  whisky  in  the  story.  My  client  was 
drunk  as  a  boiled  owl  when  he  was  arrested  —  the 
stolen  plunder  might  easily  have  been  put  on  him, 
as  he  claims  it  was.  The  jury  will  understand  that. 
There's  probably  not  a  man  on  it  who  doesn't  get 
squiffy  now  and  then." 

He  stopped  in  his  walk  and  held  up  a  hand  against 
the  light  —  it  wavered  ever  so  little.  The  draught 
had  not  yet  brought  its  accustomed  poise  of  nerve  — 
its  tense  certitude,  its  mental  glow  and  confidence. 
With  an  impatient  gesture  he  turned  again  to  the 


THE  COUNSEL  FOR  DEFENCE         9 

cabinet.  "One  used  to  do  it,"  he  said;  "it  will 
evidently  take  more  to-day  to  restore  our  bold  Turpin 
to  his  career  on  the  highway!  "  He  set  the  empty 
glass  in  its  place  with  a  short  laugh. 

"  Curious,"  he  said.  "  If  he  were  innocent  and 
drink  had  got  him  into  this  scrape,  there  would  be 
a  poetic  justice  in  drink's  getting  him  out !  " 

As  he  turned  to  lock  the  cabinet,  the  bell  of  his 
desk-telephone  rang  —  three  short,  sharp  rings.  It 
was  the  clerk's  warning  that  the  court  was  about  to 
reassemble.  He  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  cast  a 
quick  glance  at  the  little  mirrored  door.  No  tinge 
was  rising  in  his  colourless  face,  no  warming  tingle 
in  his  veins.  His  hands  were  uncertain  and  his 
fingers  had  an  odd  numbness.  A  keen,  cold  edge 
of  anxiety  touched  him.  Always  heretofore,  when 
he  had  sat  with  the  black  decanter,  he  had  felt  the 
wonderful,  slow  change  —  the  gradual  glow  creep- 
ing through  every  nerve,  the  tightening  of  muscle 
and  sinew  as  for  a  race,  the  thrilling,  glad  sense  of 
renewed  power  and  unleashed  ability  and  the  inevi- 
table quivering  rush  of  lambent  images  in  his  brain. 
The  signal  was  too  long  in  coming  to-day  —  and 
he  could  not  wait!  His  hand  shook  as  it  reached 
again  to  the  little  shelf.  An  instant  he  hesitated  — • 
for  a  breath,  while  the  light  twinkled  from  the  deep- 
cut  facets,  he  strove  to  remember  whether  he  had 
drunk  one  glass  or  two.  Then  with  a  frown  he 
poured  the  draught  and  drinking  it  off,  locked  the 
cabinet,  and  went  hurriedly  out. 


10       THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

When  he  entered  the  courtroom,  the  wide  space 
had  filled  again  and  the  State's  Attorney  had  opened 
his  address  —  a  brief  one,  icily  emotionless  and 
rigidly  exact  —  the  very  background  upon  which  so 
often  Harry  Sevier's  winged  words  had  spelled  vic- 
tory for  a  cause  prejudged  as  lost.  And  he  was  to 
reply  —  with  the  final  speech  for  whose  inspiration 
he  had  fled  to  that  locked  cabinet  in  the  darkened 
inner-office.  Paddy  the  Brick  listened  with  the  look 
of  some  trapped  thing  gazing  at  its  captor,  some- 
times turning  toward  his  counsel  a  furtive  wavering 
glance  that  was  blent  equally  of  dread  and  dog-like 
appeal.  These  glances  were  unreturned.  Harry 
Sevier  sat  motionless,  his  eyes  straight  before 
him. 

But  behind  that  mask  Harry's  thought  was  turning 
and  turning  upon  itself.  The  sudden  sharp  edge  of 
anxiety  that  had  caught  him  in  his  office  had  grown 
to  a  thriving  fear.  His  ally  was  failing  him.  The 
master,  whose  upper  hand  he  had  just  acknowledged 
—  whose  aid  had  been  so  freely  given  him  in  really 
vital  moments  —  was  forsaking  him  at  the  turn  of 
a  wretched,  second-rate  case  of  common  thievery! 
He  realised  it  with  a  sickening  sense  of  wonder  that 
mingled  with  a  dull  anger  at  the  littleness  of  the 
issue,  and  through  the  confused  mist  of  his  mind  his 
inner  ear  seemed  to  hear  a  far-distant  sardonic  laugh- 
ter—  as  though  the  Djin  of  the  bottle  laughed  in 
the  locked  wall-cabinet  at  his  dismay. 

He  rose  to  speak  for  the  defence  with  an  icy  clog 


THE  COUNSEL  FOR  DEFENCE        n 

upon  his  faculties,  while  beneath  that  frozen  surface 
the  something  that  had  been  shackled  reared  and 
struggled  vainly.  Vocabulary,  cunning  of  phrase, 
and  logical  sequence  of  argument  had  not  deserted 
him;  he  realised  this  with  a  blind  rage  that  seemed 
with  a  singular  separateness  to  lie  outside  of  himself 
—  to  associate  itself  strangely  with  the  prisoner. 
But  the  persuasion  that  had  so  often  checkmated 
justice,  the  calculated  force,  the  insinuating  tactful- 
ness,  the  living,  warm  appeal  that  had  had  their  way 
in  the  past  were  absent.  He  had  a  curious  feeling 
of  duality,  as  though  two  Harry  Seviers  had  suddenly 
and  painfully  drawn  apart  —  the  one  whose  meas- 
ured voice  was  speaking,  and  the  other  which  clam- 
oured and  appealed,  conscious  only  of  its  own  deadly 
smother  and  of  the  despairing  face  of  the  man  with 
the  wiry  sand-coloured  hair  who  sat  slouched  in  his 
chair  beside  him. 

The  roomful  seemed  very  still.  The  Judge  was 
looking  at  him  fixedly,  through  bowed  horn-glasses 
set  far  down  on  his  nose.  Harry  was  aware  that 
in  the  countenance  of  the  state's  attorney  puzzle  and 
a  stealthy  relief  struggled  together.  With  desperate 
narrowness  he  watched  the  faces  of  the  jury  for  a 
sign,  a  tentative  withdrawal  of  stolidity  that  be- 
tokened a  quickened  and  awakening  interest.  But 
they  sat  moveless  and  impassive.  There  was  a  last 
hideous  pause,  in  which  he  thought  the  foreman  sup- 
pressed an  incipient  yawn,  when  his  own  brain 
refused  further  struggle.  He  knew  that  he  had  been 


12       THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

betrayed.  The  door  of  human  sympathy  would  not 
open  —  he  had  lost  the  magic  key. 

The  reply  of  the  State's  Attorney  was  a  mere 
resume  of  the  evidence.  He  had  needed  no  more. 
The  Judge's  charge  was  brief.  Then  had  come  the 
stir  of  moving  bodies  and  the  buzz  of  whispers  — 
the  shuffling  of  feet  as  the  Judge  retired  and  the 
jurors  filed  out  —  and  at  length  the  painful  hiatus 
with  the  red  sunlight  and  the  pallid  lamps. 

This  was  broken  presently  by  three  measured  raps 
on  the  door  of  the  jury-room,  which,  as  the  Judge 
re-entered,  opened  to  admit  the  jurors.  They  were 
quickly  polled  and  the  verdict  given  —  guilty.  The 
sentence  followed  immediately. 

With  the  fateful  words  Harry  Sevier  turned  his 
eyes,  almost  as  if  suddenly  awakening  from  sleep, 
upon  the  court-room,  and  met  across  the  moving 
benches  a  woman's  concentrated  and  wondering  look. 
She  was  Echo  Allen,  the  original  of  the  portrait 
whose  photograph  lay  face-down  upon  his  office  desk. 
The  neutral-tinted  presentment,  however,  had  been 
far  from  realising  the  concrete  flush  of  sensuous 
beauty  of  its  living  original,  with  her  straight  lithe 
frame,  her  hair  all  a  wash  of  warm  russets  and 
sunny  golds,  framing  a  face  perfect  in  contour  and 
with  a  complexion  as  soft  as  a  moth's  wing.  And 
the  beauty  of  this  was  now  deepened,  if  possible, 
by  the  shadow  upon  it  of  puzzled  pain  and  inquiry. 
An  instant  the  gaze  between  them  hung,  then  it 
broke  as  she  turned  away,  gathering  her  white 


THE  COUNSEL  FOR  DEFENCE        13 

furs  about  her  throat  with  a  slow,  hesitant  gesture. 
With  the  sudden  stab  of  shame  and  humiliation 
that  rushed  through  him  —  for  he  had  not  seen  her 
there  before  that  moment  —  something  seemed  to 
break,  too,  in  Harry's  brain;  it  was  the  rigid  lock 
which  had  been  somehow  put  upon  his  faculties. 
The  emptying  room  felt  all  at  once  a  furnace,  and 
little  jerking  shocks,  like  tiny  electric  currents,  were 
running  over  him,  prickling  to  the  tips  of  his  fingers. 
Intoxication  was  upon  him,  sudden  and  overwhelm- 
ing, but  he  did  not  recognise  it.  He  had  never  been 
drunk,  in  the  sense  popularly  understood.  He  had 
always  regarded  with  wondering  distaste  the  occa- 
sional abject  surrender  of  mind  and  body  to  the 
effect  of  alcohol  with  which  he  was  familiar  in  men 
of  his  class,  and  the  vulgar  spree  filled  him  with 
disgust.  He  was  nicely  abstemious  at  his  club  and 
he  had  never  entered  a  saloon  in  his  life.  His 
indulgences,  deeper  and  more  and  more  frequent 
as  they  had  grown  of  late,  had  been  hidden  behind 
the  shades  of  his  inner  office,  and  the  liquor  he  had 
drunk  there  he  had  never  carried  in  his  legs.  For 
him  these  cloistered  hours  had  meant  no  harrowing 
aftermath  of  remorse,  no  shrinking  memory  of 
license  or  ribaldry,  but  only  the  strange  mental  ex- 
altation that  had  borne  him  to  success.  He  sat 
now  outwardly  calm  and  collected,  but  mentally  in 
an  odd  confusion,  grasping  at  strange  alert  sugges- 
tions that  were  thronging  about  him  in  a  lurid  phan- 
tasmagoria. 


i4       THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

He  came  to  his  feet  with  a  start,  suddenly  aware 
that  the  slouching  figure  beside  him  had  arisen  at 
the  heavy  touch  of  the  sheriff's  hand.  He  took  a 
step  forward,  the  lawyer  for  a  moment  again  upper- 
most, the  perplexed  mind  groping  for  the  conven- 
tional expression  of  professional  regret.  But  he 
did  not  speak.  Instead,  as  the  narrow,  red-rimmed 
eyes  stared  for  a  breath  into  his,  Harry's  out- 
stretched hand  fell  at  his  side  and  a  painful  blur 
swept  across  his  vision.  His  unsober,  kaleidoscopic 
mind  had  opened  to  something  that  lay  naked  and 
anguished  beneath  the  haggard  face  of  the  prisoner, 
something  no  longer  glossed  by  sullen  scowl  and 
sneering  bravado  —  a  concrete  fact,  perturbing  and 
vaguely  horrifying,  which  would  not  express  itself 
in  mental  symbols. 

With  hands  clenched  and  a  face  like  a  sleep- 
walker's, Sevier  crossed  the  emptying  room  to  the 
side  door,  where  his  motor  now  waited.  "  Any- 
where, Bob,"  he  said  thickly,  "  but  go  like  the  devil 
till  I  tell  you  to  stop,  if  it's  a  thousand  miles!  " 

As  the  burnished  mechanism  shot  into  pace  and 
the  cool  wind  stung  his  face,  the  early  arc-lights 
above  the  roadway  swelled  to  great  pallid  moons 
tangled  in  a  net  of  stars,  and  in  their  yellow  lustre 
the  thing  he  had  seen  in  the  prisoner's  face  sud- 
denly shouted  itself  to  his  brain.  He  flung  up  an 
arm  as  though  to  ward  a  blow. 

"  He  wasn't  guilty!  "  he  gasped.  "  He  never  did 
it,  by  God!" 


CHAPTER  II 

A   MAN  AND  A   WOMAN 

THE  girl  whose  gaze  had  for  that  instant 
found  Harry  Sevier's  across  the  crowded 
court  room  left  the  place  with  her  mind  in 
a  conflict  of  feeling.  She  was  nonplussed.  She 
had  entered  for  that  last  hour  sharing  intuitively 
the  general  belief  that  the  prisoner  would  be  ac- 
quitted :  a  belief,  founded  like  that  of  the  rest,  upon 
her  knowledge  of  his  counsel.  She  had  seen  no 
straining  for  the  spectacular  in  what  some  had  been 
wont  to  call  "  Harry  Sevier's  pyrotechnics,"  and  on 
past  occasions  on  which  she  had  heard  him  address 
a  jury  she  had  fallen  wholly  under  the  spell  of  that 
peculiar  magnetism  that  swayed  all  alike.  Aside 
from  his  continuous  success  in  a  calling  with  which 
her  whole  life  had  been  associated  —  her  father, 
Judge  Beverly  Allen,  was  Chief  Justice  of  the 
Supreme  Court,  and  his  father  had  been  Chancellor 
before  him  —  with  his  brilliant  way,  his  undenied 
leadership  among  his  fellows,  he  had  been  to  her  a 
dominant  personality.  She  had  not  lacked  the  mas- 
culine homage  of  a  dozen  others  of  their  set,  but 
Harry  Sevier  had  always  been  the  imminent  figure 
in  her  thought,  and  it  had  needed  no  spoken  word 
is 


1 6       THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

or  promise  between  them  to  link  her  imagination 
wholly  to  a  future  in  which  he  reigned  supreme. 
So  that  his  failure  to-day  had  affected  her  strongly. 

On  the  dusky  court  house  steps  she  stopped  to 
exchange  greetings  with  a  group  who  chatted  there. 
They  were  full  of  the  puzzle  of  Sevier's  failure, 
or  laughingly  rueful  at  their  own  discomfiture,  and 
she  stopped  but  a  moment  before  a  negro  coachman 
tucked  her  into  a  carriage.  As  he  climbed  lumber- 
ingly  to  his  seat  and  gathered  up  the  reins,  a  heavy, 
assured  figure  approached  the  curb.  Cameron 
Craig  was  big  and  broad  and  in  his  strong  and 
arrogant  face  lines  of  conflict  had  early  etched  them- 
selves. He  shook  hands  with  her  with  a  smile. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  in  town,"  she  said,  with 
a  trace  of  aloofness. 

"  I'm  here  for  only  a  day  or  two,"  he  answered. 
"  I  had  to  talk  a  little  politics  with  my  attorney, 
Mr.  Treadwell.  It's  his  busy  day,  it  seems,  and 
as  the  mountain  couldn't  come  to  Mahomet,  Ma- 
homet came  to  the  mountain.  So  here  I  am  at  the 
halls  of  justice.  It's  been  an  entertaining  afternoon 
—  the  trial,  I  mean  —  but  upon  my  word,  I  thought 
at  first  I  had  strayed  into  a  convention  of  the  Daugh- 
ters of  the  Confederacy." 

She  smiled,  but  it  came  with  difficulty.  "  Oh, 
court  has  become  a  social  dissipation  with  us.  It 
competes  now  with  auction-bridge  and  the  fox-trot." 

"  You  tempt  me  to  steal  a  purse  or  two,"  he  said. 
"  I  love  to  hold  the  centre  of  the  stage.  The  only 


A  MAN  AND  A  WOMAN  17 

thing  I've  been  charged  with  stealing  so  far  is  an 
election,  but  one  never  knows  to  what  heights  he 
may  rise.  If  I  pick  your  pocket  will  you  come  to 
my  trial  ?  " 

"  If  it  were  my  pocket,  I'd  have  to,  wouldn't  I?  " 
He  bowed  smilingly  and  turned  away,  as  the 
coachman  flicked  the  tossing  manes  with  the  tip  of 
his  whip.  Looking  over  her  shoulder,  while  the 
horses  whirled  her  away,  Echo  saw  his  big  frame 
swinging  up  the  steps  into  the  emptying  building, 
every  move  expressive  of  virile  strength  and  con- 
scious power. 

These  were  traits  Cameron  Craig  had  acquired 
through  direct  inheritance.  His  father  had  come 
penniless,  to  a  small  town  in  the  adjoining  state 
where,  with  calm  assurance  and  without  unnecessary 
delay,  he  had  married  the  neighbourhood's  prettiest 
girl  and  pre-empted  a  worn-out  iron  deposit  with 
a  tumble-down  furnace,  relic  of  a  series  of  dis- 
gusted British  owners.  With  the  same  certainty 
of  judgment  he  had  uncovered  the  lost  ore,  devel- 
oped the  property  till  it  paid  a  miraculous  dividend, 
and  died.  He  had  been  a  man  of  one  idea  —  the 
"  Works  " —  and  had  known  and  cared  for  nothing 
else.  The  son,  however,  with  his  father's  force 
and  will,  had  inherited,  with  less  praiseworthy  traits, 
a  further  ambition.  The  young  Cameron  Craig's 
first  free  act  after  his  schooling  ended  was  to  dis- 
pose of  the  iron  plant  and  to  throw  his  money  and 
his  brain  together  into  a  group  which  now  stood 


iB       THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

back  of  the  great  Public  Services  Corporation  that 
held  in  control  the  vested  interests  of  two  states, 
exclusive  of  the  railroads.  At  thirty  he  was  a  per- 
sonality that  loomed  large  in  organised  politics,  and 
might  be  depended  on  to  loom  steadily  larger  to  the 
end  of  the  chapter. 

As  he  entered  the  old  building  now  he  was  think- 
ing of  the  face  of  the  girl  he  had  just  left,  with 
its  brilliant  beauty  and  flashing  youth. 

"Why  not?"  he  said  to  himself.  "She  has 
birth  and  breeding,  but  I  can  match  them  with  things 
the  world  counts  as  high.  I've  never  failed  yet  to 
get  what  I  wanted  —  if  I  wanted  it  enough  1  "  His 
thoughts  recurred  to  the  trial  and  to  Harry  Sevier. 
"  Curious  that  nobody  seemed  to  guess  what  the 
matter  was  —  none  but  me.  But  I  know  what  that 
look  back  of  his  eyes  meant.  The  young  fool  1  To 
have  that  gift  —  every  thing  right  in  his  hand  — 
and  then  to  throw  it  away.  For  that's  what  it  will 
come  to,  sure  as  fate,  in  the  end!  " 

A  hand  fell  upon  his  shoulder.  It  was  Lawrence 
Treadwell,  the  attorney,  and  he  followed  the  latter 
into  a  private  room  and  sat  down.  "  Have  you  got 
the  new  committee  list?  "  he  asked,  without  pre- 
amble. 

For  answer  the  other  took  a  closely  written  paper 
from  his  pocket  and  handed  it  over.  "  Senator 
Colby  sent  it  down  by  his  secretary  this  morning." 

Craig  drew  his  chair  to  the  table  and  began  to 
make  pencilled  changes  and  corrections,  his  hand 


A  MAN  AND  A  WOMAN  19 

moving  swiftly  and  unhesitatingly.  "  There,"  he 
said,  returning  it.  "  That  will  be  better.  Let  the 
senator  have  it  back  to-morrow."  He  sat  a  moment 
silent,  his  strong  white  fingers  drumming  on  the 
table.  "  By  the  way,  is  this  young  Sevier  likely 
to  take  a  hand  in  the  next  campaign?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  other.  "  I've  always 
expected  him  to  burst  into  politics  some  day.  He 
has  a  curious  hold  on  people  —  a  wonderful  mag- 
netism. To-day's  is  the  first  jury  case  I've  ever 
known  him  to  lose.  He  as  well  as  let  it  go  by  de- 
fault. How  he  came  to  handle  it  so  beats  me !  " 

Craig  might  have  enlightened  him,  but  he  did  not. 

"  I've  concluded  we  don't  want  him,"  he  said. 
"  He's  uneven :  the  trial  to-day  proved  that.  Be- 
sides, he's  too  high-chinned  —  we  can't  depend  on 
his  type  to  obey  orders.  We  are  coming  to  a  big 
fight  and  we  want  the  docks  clear.  No  overtures 
to  him.  We  must  cut  out  every  man  whose  abso- 
lute footing  we  can't  count  on  till  the  day  of  judg- 
ment." 

The  attorney  lit  a  cigar  and  regarded  its  blue 
haze  thoughtfully  before  he  answered.  "  All 
right,"  he  agreed.  "  I  should  have  picked  him  for 
good  material.  But  you're  the  doctor." 

Meanwhile  the  carriage  was  whirling  Echo  Allen 
over  the  darkening  asphalt.  The  tired  night  lay 
still,  watching  under  dusky  lids,  the  moon,  a  great 
blown  magnolia,  floating  in  the  limpid  sky.  As  the 


20       THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

horses  pounded  on,  the  coachman's  voice  broke  in 
upon  her  revery: 

"  Reck'n  Marse  Harry  done  got  dat  man  clar, 
Miss  Echo,  lak  he  allus  do?  " 

She  drew  her  furs  closer  about  her  throat  with 
a  little  gesture  as  though  dismissing  a  baffling  prob- 
lem. "No,  'Lige;  not  this  time." 

"  Sho'  now!"  he  exclaimed,  looking  back  with 
his  thick,  blue-black  lips  framed  to  a  whistle. 
"  Muss-a  been  pow'ful  guilty  ef  he  couldn't  git  him 
off.  Ah  reck'n  dem  yuthah  lawyahs  'eluded  dey 
wanter  tek  Marse  Harry  down  —  he  done  put  it 
ovah  dem  so  off  n  —  en  dey  jes'  tek  dat  'cused  man, 
en  fool  eroun',  en  fool  eroun',  tell  dey  done  prove 
it  on  him !  " 

But  'Lige's  sage  reflection  upon  the  situation 
brought  no  smile  to  Echo  Allen's  face. 

At  length  the  horses  came  to  a  great  double-gate, 
lighted  with  heavy  wrought-iron  lamps,  opening  on 
a  curving  drive,  into  which  they  turned,  to  swing 
panting  up  to  a  wide-porched  mansion  set  in  a  grove 
of  oaks  and  acacias.  This  was  "  Midfields,"  the 
home  of  the  Aliens  for  four  generations  and  of  the 
Beverlys  before  them.  Its  wide  wings  and  col- 
umned front  spoke  of  old  colony  days,  as  did  its 
name  of  a  time  when  rolling  acres  of  tobacco  instead 
of  suburban  streets  surrounded  it.  Twilight  was 
drifting  thickly  over  it  now,  and  the  box-hedged 
garden,  with  its  plenteous  rose-shrubs  and  wild  sun- 
dial, was  purpled  with  shadow. 


A  MAN  AND  A  WOMAN  21 

Echo  jumped  down  without  assistance  and  ran 
into  the  hall,  throwing  off  her  hat  and  coat  and 
pausing  before  a  glass  to  pat  into  place  the  rebel- 
lious whorls  of  her  springing,  gold-brown  hair 
before  she  entered  the  dimly-lighted  library. 

It  was  a  wide,  pleasant  room,  with  tradition  and 
gentle  birth  in  every  line  of  its  furnishing.  The 
table  held  an  old  China  lamp  of  gilt  and  lapis-lazuli 
blue,  and  the  simple,  colonial  book-cases  were  of 
rich-veined  mahogany  which  held  the  same  shim- 
mering, tawny  lights  as  Echo's  hair  and  had  leaded- 
glass  doors  in  key  with  the  silver,  glass-prismed 
candle-sticks  on  the  mantel-piece.  A  huge  old  Eng- 
lish screen  of  painted  leather  stood  at  one  side.  On 
the  dull  green  walls  were  framed  steel  engravings 
of  the  ancestral  home  of  the  Aliens  in  Dorsetshire 
and  of  that  sturdy  ancestor,  in  lace  and  peruke, 
whose  rugged  signature  is  on  the  Declaration.  The 
place  had  but  one  modern  touch — a  splendid  por- 
trait of  Echo  herself  that  hung  between  two  great 
windows  —  the  canvas  whose  photograph  at  that 
moment  lay  face-down  in  Harry  Sevier's  inner  office. 

In  the  room  sat  her  father,  the  Judge,  perusing 
a  magazine.  He  was  a  pale,  placid  man,  straight 
and  grey  as  a  silver-birch,  with  ivory,  distinguished 
features  that  suggested  an  old  daguerreotype  and 
seemed  to  call  for  a  silk-velvet  waistcoat  and  a  stock. 
He  tossed  the  magazine  aside  as  she  came  to  him 
and  stooping,  in  a  swift  birdlike  way  she  had, 
dropped  a  kiss  on  the  top  of  his  billowy,  grey  hair. 


22        THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

"  There  you  are,"  she  chided,  "  ruining  your  poor 
eyes  with  fine  print  in  this  wretched  light!  " 

She  turned  the  reading-lamp  higher  and  drew  the 
curtains.  As  she  pulled  the  heavy  folds  together 
they  swept  from  its  place  a  heavy  brass  bowl  filled 
with  Marechal  Niel  roses,  and  it  fell  with  a  crash 
onto  a  frail  Italian  desk  of  dark  rosewood  quaintly 
inlaid  with  designs  in  lighter  colour,  which  sat  in  a 
corner. 

She  sprang  to  catch  it  with  a  cry.  "  I'm  as  bad  as 
Uncle  Nelson!"  she  exclaimed.  "How  lucky  it 
didn't  spill !  "  She  set  the  bowl  back  and  passed  a 
hand  alpng  the  polished  desk-top,  frowning.  "  It 
has  made  a  terrific  dent  in  the  poor  old  thing!  "  she 
said,  remorsefully.  "  It  must  have  jarred  it  fright- 
fully. I'm  so  sorry !  "  She  looked  at  her  father, 
who  had  half  risen  at  her  cry.  "  You  were  always 
fond  of  the  little  old  desk,  though  you  never  used 
it.  I  used  to  love  it  when  I  was  a  child.  It  was 
so  mysterious,  with  its  tiny  cubby-holes  and  carvings. 
Some  one  told  me  once  that  such  foreign  desks 
always  had  secret  drawers  and  I  used  to  spend  hours 
trying  to  find  one.  Where  did  it  come  from?  Did 
it  belong  to  grandfather?  " 

"  No.  It  was  willed  to  me  many  years  ago  by  — 
a  friend.  It  was  when  you  were  a  baby." 

"  How  curious,"  she  said,  "  for  a  man  to  choose 
a  piece  of  furniture  like  that!  Why,  it's  as  femi- 
nine as  a  toilet-table !  "  She  came  and  perched  one 


A  MAN  AND  A  WOMAN  23 

small  toe  on  the  fender,  as  he  asked:  "Where's 
Nancy !  " 

"  I  haven't  seen  her  since  luncheon.  She  was 
going  to  tea  at  Cora  Spottiswoode's." 

"  Her  father  has  written  me  she  must  come  home 
at  the  end  of  the  week,"  said  the  Judge.  "  He 
says  if  she  doesn't  he'll  start  an  action  against  some- 
body for  kidnapping  —  says  nobody  can  fix  his 
coffee  just  right  but  her." 

She  smiled.  The  two  families  were  life-long 
friends  and  since  their  boarding-school  days  she  and 
Nancy  Langham  had  exchanged  annual  visits. 
"  I'll  tell  her,"  she  said.  "  I  wish  she  could  stay 
longer,  though  it's  lonely  for  her  father,  no  doubt. 
I  love  to  have  her  here.  She's  —  fond  of  Chilly, 
and  I've  been  hoping  it  —  might  have  an  influence 
over  him." 

The  Judge  sighed.  The  name  of  Chisholm 
Allen,  Echo's  twin-brother,  was  a  synonym  in  the 
city  for  debonair  devil-may-care.  With  the  likeli- 
ness  that  kept  him  popular  even  among  those  staid 
members  of  society  who  did  not  countenance  his 
peccadillos,  he  combined  a  negligence  and  dissipa- 
tion that  from  his  boyhood  had  made  him  a  thorn- 
in-the-flesh  to  his  father. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  she's  fond  of  him.  That's  why 
I  think  she  shouldn't  stay  too  long." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  Then  he  said 
in  a  lighter  tone,  "  I  wonder  how  Sevier's  case  came 


24       THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

out.     It  was  expected  to  finish  to-day,  wasn't  it?  " 

"  Oh,"  she  answered,  "  he  lost.  The  jury  found 
against  him.  I  was  there  for  an  hour,  just  at  the 
end." 

He  made  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  and  stole  a 
quick  glance  at  her,  but  she  had  bent  down  to 
straighten  a  shoe-buckle  and  he  could  not  see  her 
face.  "  Ah  well,"  he  said,  "  it  won't  do  him  any 
harm  to  get  a  set-back  now  and  then.  Perhaps  he 
needs  it.  Were  there  many  there?  " 

"  Half  the  world,"  she  answered.  "  I  saw  Cam- 
eron Craig." 

"  So  he  is  in  town,  eh?  I  must  send  a  note  to 
the  hotel  and  ask  him  to  luncheon  to-morrow." 

She  was  silent  and  he  said  quizzically.  "  Come, 
my  dear,  you  mustn't  be  such  a  chin-tilted  patrician. 
*  Other  times,  other  manners.'  Craig  has  his  place, 
and  it's  not  a  low  one,  either." 

She  made  a  move  of  impatience.  "  He's  a  mem- 
ber of  the  best  clubs  in  his  own  city,  and  all  that, 
I  know.  He  belongs  there.  But  here  it  is  differ- 
ent. We  are  not  beholden  to  him.  Why  should 
we  go  out  of  our  way  to  treat  him  like  one  of  us? 
He  isn't,  really.  He  may  be  a  University  man  and 
he  may  have  travelled  all  over  the  world.  Yes,  and 
I'll  admit  he  has  manners  —  a  manner,  if  you  like 
—  too.  But  there's  something  that  keeps  him  an 
outsider  just  the  same.  Besides,  people  tell  unpleas- 
ant tales  about  him." 

Her  father  cleared  his  throat.     Gossip  had  been 


A  MAN  AND  A  WOMAN  25 

prolific  in  tales  of  Craig  as  regarded  the  fairer  — 
and  frailer  —  sex.  He  had  heard  the  stories  — 
unsavoury  ones,  such  as  inevitably  cling  to  men, 
whatever  their  business  or  social  standing,  who  ac- 
quire the  whispered  reputation  of  the  voluptuary. 
He  had  himself,  however,  a  singular  reserve  of 
judgment,  coupled  with  an  impatient  intolerance  of 
scandal.  Men  to  him  were  as  he  found  them,  till 
the  event  proved  otherwise. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  he  said  judicially. 
"  He  hasn't  our  traditions  and  standards.  That's 
true.  He's  not  born  to  them.  But  this  is  an  un- 
charitable world,  my  dear,  and  half  the  tattle  one 
hears  is  apt  to  be  sheer  envy.  He  is  a  person  of 
importance.  He  has  a  good  deal  of  influence,  as 
well  as  money,  and  is  affiliated  with  men  with  whom 
a  large  part  of  my  earlier  life  was  associated." 

She  hardly  heard  his  closing  words :  "  Influence 
and  money !  "  she  repeated,  with  a  little  shrug. 
"  Why  need  we  bother  about  them !  The  Judiciary, 
thank  heaven !  has  nothing  to  do  with  political  influ- 
ence, and  as  for  money,  I  should  hate  to  think 
that  what  we  have  came,  like  his,  from  the  United 
Distilleries !  " 

"  Echo !  "     The  name  fell  sharply  behind  them. 

Both  turned  —  the  Judge  a  little  self-consciously 
—  to  where  his  wife  stood  in  the  doorway.  She 
was  already  dressed  for  dinner  and  her  dark  cor- 
sage set  off  her  white  neck  and  beautifully  rounded 
shoulders  —  a  cool,  statuesque  woman,  of  unfailing 


26       THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

poise  and  manner,  with  her  grey  hair  perfectly  dis- 
posed above  a  complexion  whose  tinting  was  the 
despair  of  many  a  younger  matron.  Instinctively 
the  girl's  hand  had  crept  into  the  Judge's  arm,  and 
insensibly  the  two  had  drawn  a  shade  nearer  to- 
gether. 

Mrs.  Allen  stood  looking  at  them  a  moment, 
faintly  smiling,  before  she  said  deliberately,  "  That 
is  a  ridiculous  way  of  talking.  Please  let  me  remind 
you  that  your  father  was  the  Trust's  counsel  for 
many  years,  and  until  he  went  on  the  Bench." 

"Oh,  I  forgot — "  she  began,  distressed.  "I 
only  meant — " 

"  There,  there ! "  the  Judge  said,  frowning. 
"  People  feel  differently  about  those  things.  You 
have  a  perfect  right  to  think  in  that  way,  if  you 
choose." 

"  I  couldn't  think  anything  you  did  was  wrong," 
she  cried  passionately.  "  And,  anyway,  giving  a 
company  legal  advice  is  very  far  from  being  in  its 
business.  Every  one  has  to  have  lawyers,  of  course. 
They  defend  even  criminals." 

He  smiled  quizzically  at  her  argument.  "  Well," 
he  countered,  "  I'm  respectable  in  my  old  age,  at 
any  rate."  He  had  pressed  a  bell  as  he  spoke  and 
to  the  grizzled  negro  who  now  entered  he  said, 
"  Nelson,  has  your  Marse  Chilly  come  in  yet?  If 
he  has  I'd  like  to  see  him." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head.  "  Marse  Chilly 
done  tellyfoam  he  won'  be  home  fo'  dinnah,  suh." 


A  MAN  AND  A  WOMAN  27 

The  Judge  pulled  his  chin,  palpably  annoyed,  but 
quick  to  his  resentful  mood,  Echo  laid  her  hand 
caressingly  on  his  arm. 

"  Never  mind,  dear,"  she  said  coaxingly. 
"  Don't  fret  about  Chilly." 

Mrs.  Allen's  voice  interposed.  "  Chilly  sent  me 
the  message  an  hour  ago,"  she  said,  with  an  accent 
that  seemed  finally  to  dismiss  the  topic.  "  I  think 
you  would  better  dress  now,  Echo.  Nancy  has  been 
in  some  time,  and  dinner's  at  seven-thirty." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   AWAKENING 

AN  automobile  speeding  through  the  starry 
dark!     No  hesitant  progress  through  con- 
gested traffic,  no  frequent  swerving  for  day- 
light wayfarers.     The  city  was  far  behind  now  — 
only  the  clear,  well-nigh  deserted  road,  winding  like 
a  tremulous  magenta  ribbon  through  the  swooping 
gloom  that  seemed  to  shrink  and  cringe  from  the 
metal  monster  hurtling  after  its  golden  halo  through 
the  eddying  dust. 

A  practised  hand  was  on  the  throttle  and  the 
yellow-lined  face  bent  over  the  wheel  was  shrewd 
and  keen.  There  had  been  no  supper  for  Bob  that 
night  and  no  evening  at  Black  Joe's  billiard  parlour, 
but  the  chauffeur  knew  his  master.  "  Go  like  the 
devil  till  I  tell  you  to  stop,"  the  other  had  said,  and 
without  the  word  from  the  moveless  figure  on  the 
rear  seat,  he  would  obey  till  the  engine  stopped  or 
his  hand  went  numb  on  the  wheel.  Hamlets  flashed 
by  —  huddles  of  flaring  street-lights  —  then  shadow 
and  blankness  again.  Now  and  then  a  hollow 
rumbling  marked  a  bridge,  or  a  jovial,  beckoning 
doorway  betokened  a  road-house.  Ten,  twenty, 
thirty  miles.  A  turn  of  the  wheel  and  the  car  swept 
28 


THE  AWAKENING  29 

into  a  divergent  highway.  Another  mile  and  again 
a  turn  —  Bob  was  shuttling  back  and  forth  now, 
fearful  of  an  impossible  distance  from  home. 

The  man  behind  him  sat  as  if  graven  in  stone. 
At  first,  while  his  senses  instinctively  resisted  the 
intoxication,  Harry  had  been  conscious  only  of  blind 
movement,  a  frantic  flight  to  escape  the  unescapable. 
Yet  his  whole  body  was  tense,  his  eyes  never  wav- 
ered, his  hand  was  as  steady  as  his  chauffeur's.  He 
was  sharply  conscious  of  all  about  him,  every  sense 
recording  its  message  unerringly.  He  felt  the  wind- 
flung  dust,  heard  the  chatter  of  the  exhaust,  grasped 
acutely  at  each  detail  of  sight  and  sound  in  the 
reeling  panorama  through  which  they  passed  with 
such  arrow-like  swiftness,  under  a  sky  that  was  a 
wild,  blue  field  of  silver  flowers.  Yet  the  govern- 
ance of  the  mind,  the  sole  arena  in  which  the  intoxi- 
cant ravened  and  rioted,  the  logical  faculty  to  which 
sense-impression  is  but  material,  was  astray.  And 
at  length  the  intoxication  had  wholly  conquered. 

And  with  the  acknowledged  dominance  of  the 
sinister  thing  that  held  him,  the  mental  turmoil  had 
swiftly  stilled.  There  had  come  sudden  composure 
—  a  strange,  appalling  peace,  in  which  was  no  appre- 
ciation of  place  or  time  or  fact,  but  yet  a  curious 
exaltation,  a  sensation  of  seeing  not  through  a  glass 
darkly,  but  with  a  further  mental  vision  which  knew 
no  material  bars. 

Three  hours,  four  hours  —  and  still  no  sign. 
Bob  stole  a  glance  behind  him.  "Wonder  what's 


3o       THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

the  matter?"  he  muttered.  "He  sure  never  did 
want  to  go  hell-bent-for-election  like  this  before. 
Lucky  I  filled  the  tank  plumb  full  this  morning.  She's 
good  for  another  forty  mile,  I  reckon." 

As  he  withdrew  his  eyes  he  became  aware  of  a 
red  light  swinging  down  into  the  road  —  a  railway- 
crossing.  He  threw  himself  forward  on  the  gear 
and  with  a  grinding  roar  the  brakes  took  hold. 
Plunging  and  shuddering,  the  car  stopped  dead,  its 
forward  lamps  jingling  against  the  warning  bar. 

With  the  sudden  stop  Harry  lurched  forward. 
And,  curiously,  with  the  abrupt  cessation  of  motion 
and  roar,  the  vast,  vague  distance  through  which 
his  mind  had  been  shuttling,  closed  instantly  up. 
The  baleful  intoxication  had  lifted  as  it  had  come. 
He  did  not  wake  fully  at  once,  for  the  breaking 
of  the  spell  left  him  in  a  strange  confusion  through 
which  he  saw  but  dimly  the  outlines  of  the  real 
present.  He  found  himself  sitting  dazed  and 
shaken  in  his  motor  —  staring  at  the  broad  back 
of  his  chauffeur  beyond  which,  an  isolated  point  in 
the  darkness  of  the  night,  swung  the  angry  red  lan- 
tern of  the  crossing.  He  put  a  hand  to  his  fore- 
head —  what  was  he  doing  there  ? 

It  was  coming  back  to  him.  He  remembered  the 
straining  trial,  the  hour  in  his  inner  office  —  with 
the  little  wall-cabinet!  He  saw  the  crowded  court- 
room, saw  himself  standing  impotent  before  the  bar, 
saw  the  despairing  face  of  the  man  beside  him,  the 
puzzled  countenances  about  him,  the  dim  lamps. 


THE  AWAKENING  31 

He  heard  verdict  and  sentence.  He  saw  himself 
turn  to  gaze  into  the  face  of  the  girl  across  the 
court-room  —  knew  the  swift  rush  of  the  motor, 
the  blazing  arc  lights  and  that  final  stab  of  realisa- 
tion! 

His  lips  tightened  to  shut  back  something  like  a 
groan,  as  there  rushed  upon  him  a  sense  of  horror, 
of  disgust,  of  shame.  The  Harry  Sevier  he  had 
been  —  the  Harry  Sevier  of  good  repute,  of  dis- 
dain for  the  intemperate,  of  brilliant  accomplish- 
ment and  regular  habit,  was  gazing  with  horrified 
eyes  at  the  Harry  Sevier  he  had  unwittingly  become, 
the  slave  of  the  spirit  he  had  so  long  invoked,  whose 
coarse  debauch  had  to-day  betrayed  his  client,  and 
sent  an  innocent  man  to  the  wretched  cell  of  a 
convict ! 

He  spoke.     "  Bob,  where  are  we  ?  " 

The  chauffeur  stole  a  quick  glance  behind  him — < 
there  was  relief  in  it.  "  Penitentiary-Crossing, 
sir,"  he  said.  "There's  the  Black  Maria."  He 
pointed  to  one  side,  where  the  gloomy  vehicle,  a 
wheeled  ark  with  a  narrow  barred  window  set  in 
its  rear,  waited  with  its  patient  mules. 

The  train  was  at  the  crossing  now  and  the  rumble 
of  the  brakes  swelled  to  a  vibrant  screech,  the  long 
dotted  line  of  dimly-lighted  windows  shuddering  to 
a  stop  right  athwart  the  road.  A  train-man  with 
a  lantern  jumped  down,  followed  by  a  couple  of 
passengers.  Harry  opened  the  door  of  the  tonneau 
and  suddenly  conscious  that  he  was  stiff  and  aching 


32       THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

in  every  joint,  achieved  the  ground  and  took  a  step 
toward  the  train. 

Two  figures  just  then  emerged  from  the  glare. 
He  saw  that  they  were  linked  together  by  a  wrist 
and  as  the  coat  of  one  blew  aside,  the  lights  of 
the  motor  glinted  from  a  nickel  star  —  the  badge 
of  a  deputy-sheriff.  They  had  passed  him,  and  the 
train  was  moving  again  to  the  chug-chug  of  the  en- 
gine, when  the  officer  turned  back,  biting  the  end 
from  a  cigar. 

"  Could  you  give  me  a  light?  "  he  asked. 
"  Certainly."     Sevier   took    a    silver    match-box 
from  his  pocket. 

The  other  struck  the  match,  hauling  irritably  at 
his  lagging  prisoner,  and  the  red  light,  flaring  up, 
for  an  instant  showed  the  two  faces,  the  sheriff's 
grim  and  tenacious,  and  the  one  beside  it  —  a  white, 
dogged  face,  with  red-rimmed  eyes  and  a  shock  of 
sand-coloured  hair. 

Sevier  shrank  as  though  at  a  blow  in  the  face. 
He  drew  a  sharp  breath,  for  the  sight  pierced  to 
the  excoriate  spot  that  lay  like  a  live  coal  in  his 
soul.  There  before  him  stood  his  client  of  that 
day's  trial,  on  the  last  lap  of  his  dismal  journey, 
the  man  whom  he,  Harry  Sevier,  had  sent  there! 
Back  of  this  man  of  the  law,  with  his  gleaming  star 
and  pocket  revolver,  he  saw  himself  standing,  the 
real  mainspring  of  that  blatant  enginery. 

The  flare  of  the  match  fell.  "  Well,  good  night 
to  you,"  said  the  deputy-sheriff. 


THE  AWAKENING  33 

"  Hold  on,"  said  Harry.  "  Can  a  prisoner  use 
money?  " 

"  They're  not  supposed  to,  but  I  reckon  money 
talks  as  loud  in  a  concrete  cell  as  anywhere  else." 

Sevier  had  taken  some  crisp  yellow-backs  from 
his  pocket  and  now  he  held  them  out  —  to  the  jail- 
bird. "  Here !  "  he  said.  "  Take  this." 

The  other  looked  at  the  bills  with  a  suddenly 
contorted  face,  then  with  a  whirl  of  his  unfettered 
hand  dashed  them  on  the  ground.  "  Keep  your 
money!"  he  snarled.  "I'm  a  thief  —  that's  what 
/  am  now!  When  I  want  money  I'll  steal  it!  " 

The  sheriff  made  an  exclamation,  and  jerked 
viciously  on  the  tethered  wrist.  "  Don't  you  mind, 
sir,"  he  said.  "  You  mean  it  well,  but  this  is  an 
ugly  one.  Lord  love  you,  they'll  soon  take  that 
out  of  him  over  there!  Come  along,  you,"  he 
added  to  the  other,  pulling  him  toward  the  Black 
Maria,  "  and  if  you  open  your  face  like  that  I'll 
give  you  what  for !  " 

Sevier  stood  an  instant  looking  dully  after  them, 
then  mechanically  picked  up  the  fallen  bills,  fum- 
blingly  replaced  them  in  his  pocket,  and  climbed  into 
the  motor.  He  felt  his  face  suddenly  hot.  In 
those  flung  words  his  judicial  mind  recognised  the 
indictment.  From  the  little  wall-cabinet  in  his 
inner-office  had  crept  a  thing  of  shame  and  humilia- 
tion to  himself.  He  saw  this  now  suddenly  swell 
and  grow  —  as  did  the  vapour  from  the  fisherman's 
cruse  —  to  a  blighting,  tentacled  thing,  reaching 


34       THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

interminably  into  the  future,  holding  in  its  coils  a 
human  life  of  pain,  of  desperate  warfare,  of  social 
outlawry. 

He  sat  down  on  the  leather  cushions  like  one  in 
a  dream. 

"  Home  now,  Bob,"  he  said,  heavily. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   PRODIGAL 

AT  Midfields  that  evening  the  late  moonlight 
poured  a  flood  of  radiance  on  the  wide  col- 
umned porch  with  its  climbing  roses  where 
Echo  sat  on  the  step,  chin  in  hand,  absorbed  in  her 
own  thought.     She  was  alone.     Nancy  had  slipped 
off  to  bed,  her  mother  had  retired  to  her  room 
and  her  father  to  the  quiet  of  the  library  and  his 
reading. 

From  the  kitchens  she  could  hear  the  muffled 
clash  of  table-silver  and  the  strident  voice  of  Aunt 
Emily  the  cook,  grumbling  at  Nelson:  "  Yo'-all 
hurry  erlong  wid  dem  ar  fawks,  now!  Speck  ah's 
gwine  wait  heah  all  night,  yo'  triflin'  trash,  yo'? 
Yo'  heah  me  —  yo'  ain'  blind!  What  yo'  'spose 
Marse  Bev'ly  pay  yo'  fo',  anyhow?"  From  far 
down  the  road,  beyond  the  gates,  she  could  hear 
the  faint  twang  of  a  guitar  and  the  refrain  of 
strolling,  darky  voices: 

"  Reign !     Reign !     Reign-a   mah   Lawd ! 

Reign,  Marse  Jesus,  reign! 
Reign  salvation  in-a  mah  soul, 
Reign,  Marse  Jesus,  reign !  " 

These  died  away  with  the  sharp,  eager  bark  of  a 

dog.     Then  at  length  distinguishable  sounds  faded 

35 


36       THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

and  there  was  only  the  deep,  somnolent  peace  of 
the  southern  night,  with  the  scent  of  the  roses 
wreathing  the  garden  with  their  intense,  mystical 
ocjour  —  only  the  faint  stirring  of  little  leaves  play- 
ing hide-and-seek  with  their  shadows,  and  the  thin, 
fairy  tone-carpet  woven  by  the  myriad  looms  of 
night  insects  for  near  whispers  to  tread  on. 

Since  that  homeward  ride  she  had  had  no  time  to 
ponder  upon  the  event  of  the  day.  At  dinner  the 
trial  had  been  touched  upon  but  casually.  Now 
that  she  was  alone,  however,  it  had  rushed  upper- 
most in  her  thought.  It  was  not  that  Harry  Sevier 
had  lost  the  verdict:  but  his  speech  had  seemed  to 
her,  in  the  tension  of  the  crisis,  with  a  man's  honour 
and  liberty  at  stake,  inconsequential  and  almost  flip- 
pant. And  in  the  measure  of  her  disappointment  she 
had  realised  anew  the  depth  of  her  regard  for  him. 
Again  and  again  she  pictured  the  scene  in  the  court- 
room but  each  time  her  thought  returned  upon  itself, 
baffled  and  puzzled. 

At  length,  with  a  long  breath  that  was  almost  a 
sigh,  she  stirred,  and  rising,  passed  into  the  library 
where  the  Judge  sat  in  the  arm-chair  by  his  reading 
lamp.  "  You're  a  disgraceful  night-owl,"  she  said, 
"  and  I  refuse  to  keep  you  in  countenance  any 
longer." 

He  smiled  at  her.  "That's  right,  Sorrel-Top! 
It's  time  for  beauty-sleep  if  you  and  Nancy  are  off 
to  ride  in  the  morning.  Just  give  me  my  eye-shade, 
will  you,  before  you  go?  " 


THE  PRODIGAL  37 

She  brought  the  green  crescent  and  snapped  it 
on  his  forehead.  "  There !  You  haven't  told  me 
how  you  like  my  dress  to-night.  It's  a  new  one." 

He  looked.     "  It's  beautiful." 

She  turned  about  before  him.  "  I  do  choose  well 
sometimes,  don't  I?" 

"  You  do  everything  well,  my  dear."  In  his  tone 
now  was  a  quaint  and  curious  humility  which  always 
touched  her  when  she  discerned  it  —  something  of 
utter  fondness  and  dependance  —  and  she  smoothed 
his  iron-grey  hair,  one  of  her  characteristic  endear- 
ments, as  she  kissed  him  good  night. 

Upstairs  Echo  opened  the  door  of  her  room  softly. 
It  was  hung  in  blue  —  that  shade  which  one  sees 
in  a  Gainsborough  ribbon,  a  Romney  sash  or  a 
Reynolds  sky  —  and  its  furniture  was  of  simple 
white,  with  large  pink  dahlias  trailing  over  the 
chintz  window-curtains  and  chair-cushions.  In  the 
dim  night-light  the  triple  mirror  of  the  dresser  re- 
flected the  carven  four-post  bed,  in  one  of  whose 
pillows  Nancy's  dark  head  was  already  buried. 

"  Is  that  you,  Echo?  " 

"  Yes,  it's  I.     Were  you  asleep  already?  " 

"  Almost,"  yawned  Nancy.  "  I  shall  be  in  two 
shakes  of  a  lamb's  tail.  Has  Chilly  come  home 
yet?" 

"  No,  not  yet" 

"Do  you  think  he's  really  at  the  club,  Echo?" 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  Men  are  so  queer !  "  sighed  Nancy,  drowsily. 


38        THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

"  We  had  such  a  lovely  evening  —  all  except 
Chilly's  not  being  there." 

Echo  slipped  off  her  gown  and  drew  out  the  pins 
from  her  hair,  letting  it  fall  in  a  shimmering  cloud 
to  her  waist.  Then  in  the  moon-light  she  drew  a 
deep  chair  before  the  open  window  and  began  to 
brush  out  that  wonderful  mass  of  stirring  gold  that 
curled  and  waved  about  her  bare,  round  shoulders. 
Below  her  the  garden  lay,  a  mass  of  olive  shadows, 
wound  in  cloudy  golds  and  misty  greens,  sprinkled 
with  moon-dust  and  drenched  with  the  dizzying 
scent  of  roses  and  honeysuckle.  All  was  lapped  in 
the  utter  quiet  of  the  night  —  only  the  swift  wing 
of  a  night-bird  shook  the  darker  clump  of  ivy  that 
marked  the  sun-dial.  A  long  time  she  sat  there, 
the  brush  parting  and  smoothing  the  bronze  mesh 
with  long  sweeping  movements,  gazing  into  the 
whisper-haunted  gloom  and  listening  to  the 
measured  breathing  of  the  girl  behind  her  that 
seemed  to  form  a  rhythmical  current  for  her  own 
thoughts. 

All  at  once  in  the  hush  there  came  the  clashing  of 
the  gate  at  the  foot  of  the  drive  and  jovial  "  good- 
byes," mingled  with  a  hilarious  voice  asseverating 
that  its  owner  had  had  "  the  time  of  his  young  life." 

She  bit  her  lip.  "It's  Chilly  1"  she  whispered, 
with  a  frowning  look  over  her  shoulder. 

She  listened  intently.  There  was  the  crunch  of 
an  uncertain  step  on  the  gravel,  the  sound  of  a 


THE  PRODIGAL  39 

stumble  from  the  porch  —  then  the  slamming  of  the 
front  door. 

The  dulled  sound  reverberated  through  the  old 
house.  It  roused  Nancy  and  she  sat  upright  in  the 
drift  of  silken  coverlets,  her  eyes  heavy  with  sleep. 
"  Is  it  Chilly?" 

"  Yes.     He  has  just  come  in." 

"Is  he—  ?" 

"  I'm  afraid  so,  dear." 

The  younger  girl  caught  her  breath.  "  Oh,  I 
hope  your  father  has  gone  to  bed.  He's  so  hard 
on  him!  " 

Echo  turned.  "How  can  he  be  otherwise?" 
she  said,  sadly.  "  It's  so  often  and  often  it  hap- 
pens, nowadays.  Won't  you  try  and  influence  him? 
He  cares  for  you,  darling!  " 

Nancy's  hands  were  clasped  tight  about  her 
knees.  She  stirred  uneasily.  "  How  can  I,  Echo? 
A  boy  has  to  have  a  little  bit  of  a  good  time  once  in 
awhile.  I  wouldn't  want  him  to  be  a  molly-coddle ! 
He  won't  be  any  the  worse  for  it  when  he  gets  older 
and  settled  down." 

"  The  worse  for  it !  "  The  words  fell  sadly. 
"  Don't  you  think  he  is  the  worse  for  it  already? 
He's  making  no  progress  with  his  law-study  and 
he's  been  two  years  out  of  college,  now.  There's 
nothing  to  blame  but  his  drinking  —  and  the  com- 
pany he  keeps.  What  will  be  the  end  of  it?  Oh, 
Nancy,  you  have  a  responsibility.  Every  woman 


4o       THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

has  with  some  one  man.  If  women  only  wouldn't 
countenance  it  as  they  do !  " 

"But,  Echo  —  you  talk  as  if  Chilly  was  —  as 
if  you  thought  he  was  doing  something  disgraceful. 
Why,  he's  a  gentleman;  he  couldn't  be  anything  but 
that,  no  matter  what  he  did  I  " 

Echo  came  to  the  bed  and  sat  down  beside  the 
other.  In  her  filmy  night-gown,  wound  in  the  mist 
of  her  loosened  gold  shadowed  hair  she  looked  like 
some  ethereal  thing  in  the  moonlight. 

"Ah,  that's  just  what  so  many  say!  That  a 
gentleman  is  a  gentleman  whether  he  is  drunk  or 
sober!  It's  not  so  with  other  things.  Is  a  gentle- 
man a  gentleman  whether  he  lies,  or  cheats  at  cards, 
or  not?  Isn't  there  to  be  any  standard,  really? 
Don't  you  see  that  there  never  will  be  any  penalty 
—  as  far  as  drinking  is  concerned  —  until  women 
make  it?  Listen,  Nancy.  The  year  I  came  out,  I 
went  to  a  dance  —  my  first  big  one.  There  was  a 
boy  there  who  followed  me  about  all  over  the  floor. 
He  wanted  me  to  dance  with  him,  and  he  was  — 
he  could  hardly  walk.  At  first  I  was  frightened,  but 
at  last  I  grew  angry.  I  asked  a  lady  why  he  was 
not  asked  to  leave  the  floor.  She  seemed  quite  as- 
tonished and  indignant.  *  But,'  she  said,  '  don't 
you  know  who  he  is?  That's  the  son  of  General 
Moultrie !  *  It  was  Cale  Moultrie.  You  know 
what  became  of  him,  don't  you?  " 

"  Yes."  Nancy's  voice  was  muffled.  "  But 
Chilly—" 


THE  PRODIGAL  41 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  there  was  a  time  when  Cale  drank 
no  more  than  the  others,  and  everybody  liked  him 
—  as  they  do  Chilly.  It's  coming  to  be  the  same 
with  him,  I'm  afraid.  There's  no  penalty  for  him 
yet  because  he's  Chisholm  Allen  —  because  he's 
father's  son!" 

She  stopped,  caught  by  the  sound  of  a  sob.  In  an- 
other moment  her  arms  were  around  the  frail  little 
body  and  the  flower-like  face  was  pressed  hard 
against  her  breast. 

"  I  don't  care  if  he  is  d-d-dissipated,"  said  Nancy 
passionately.  "  I'd  rather  have  him  come  to  me 
d-d-drunk  than  any  other  man  sober!  He's  just 
Ch-Ch-Chilly,  all  the  same!" 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   UNLAID   GHOST 

ON  the  ground  floor  of  the  old  house  all  was 
silent  save  in  the  dining-room,  where  a  sin- 
gle electric  bulb  threw  into  garish  relief  the 
dismantled  table  with  a  bowl  of  fern  glowing  like  a 
fountain  of  emeralds  against  the  dark  wood.  It 
lighted  the  Chippendale  sideboard,  before  which 
Chisholm  Allen  confronted  old  Nelson,  the  butler. 
A  cut-glass  decanter  of  sherry  was  in  one  hand ;  the 
other  was  alternately  fumbling  uncertainly  with  the 
stopper  and  pushing  back  the  persuasive  fingers  of 
the  aged  negro.  His  straw  hat  was  tipped  awry, 
his  face  was  flushed  and  his  eyes  unnaturally  bright. 
He  was  laughing  immoderately. 

"You  old  black  stick-in-the-mud!"  he  said. 
"  What's  the  matter  with  you?  Think  you  own  that 
decanter,  eh  ?  Well,  you  don't,  not  by  a  long  shot. 
/  do  —  Chris'mas  present  from  the  Duchess. 
Hope  to  die  if  it  wasn't.  Leggo,  you  virtuous  old 
chicken-thief,  and  give  me  a  tumbler !  " 

"Now,  Marse  Chilly!"  The  low  voice  was 
deprecating  and  appealing,  and  there  was  love  in  it 
too  —  the  deep,  changeless  affection  of  the  old-time 
negro  for  his  white  master.  "  Yo'  knows  yo'  don7 
want  no  mo'  dat  ar.  Yo'  done  had  er  plenty  at  dat 
42 


THE  UNLAID  GHOST  43 

ole  club  down  town.  Ef  yo'  tuck  away  any  mo' 
now,  yo'  gwine  have  er  haid  lak  er  rainbar'l  on  yo' 
shouldahs  in  dee  mawnin' !  Yo'  knows  yo'  is!  " 

Chilly's  hand  dragged  at  the  black  detaining 
fingers.  "  What  do  you  know  about  heads?  Take 
your  fool  hands  away,  I  tell  you !  I'm  only  going 
to  take  a  couple  of  swallows." 

"  Ah  knows  dem  ar  swallers,"  pleaded  the  old 
man.  "  Yo'  go  erlong  tuh  baid.  Hit's  long  pas' 
midnight.  Marse  Bev-ly's  in  dee  lib'ry." 

"  Oh  bother!  "  said  Chilly  irreverently.  "  He's 
gone  to  bye-bye  long  ago.  "  Shut  your  face  or 
you'll  wake  him  up." 

"  Fo'  dee  Lawd,  Marse  Chilly !  "  stuttered  the 
old  man.  "  Ah  heahs  him  comin'  now!  Ah  sho' 
does!" 

"  You  can't  bamboozle  me !  "  laughed  Chilly. 
"  Old  Huckleberry's  been  snoozing  this  hour !  If 
he  does  come,  you  and  I'll  drink  his  health.  Eh? 
Wonder  what  he'd  say!  " 

He  was  not  to  be  left  in  doubt,  for  at  the  moment 
the  hall-door  opened.  His  father  stood  on  the 
threshold.  He  was  dressed  and  the  green  eye- 
shade  was  on  his  forehead. 

"  We  will  dispense,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  quiet 
hardness,  "  with  a  ceremony  which,  however  filial, 
is  somewhat  ill-timed.  Nelson,  I  think  you  needn't 
wait  up  any  longer." 

"  Yas,  Marse  Bev'ly.  Yas,  suh."  The  old  man 
went  to  the  door,  hesitated  and  came  back.  "  Is 


44       THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

yo'  sho'  yo'  don'  want  nothin'  else,  Marse  Bev'ly?  " 

"  Nothing  further,  Nelson." 

"  Yas,  suh.  Good  night,  Marse  Bev'ly.  Good 
night,  Marse  Chilly."  This  time  he  went  out, 
closing  the  door  behind  him  with  exaggerated  cau- 
tion. 

"  Come  now,  Judge,"  said  his  son,  still  mirthfully. 
"  There's  no  masonic  funeral  going  on  in  the  bunga- 
low, is  there?  Can't  one  have  a  harmless  night-cap 
without  being  excommunicated?  " 

His  father  looked  at  him  from  under  the  green 
shade  with  gloomy  disapproval.  The  address  did 
not  tend  to  mend  matters;  his  son  was  wont  to  re- 
serve the  judicial  title  for  moods  of  especial  mellow- 
ness such  as  to-night's.  He  noted  the  flushed  face 
and  sparkling  eyes,  the  general  air  of  goodnatured 
recklessness  that  so  clearly  spoke  the  nature  of  the 
other's  evening's  pleasure. 

"  We'll  discuss  that  to-morrow."  He  crossed  to 
the  wall  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  electric  switch. 
"  Good  night." 

Chisholm  still  smiled  without  apparent  resent- 
ment. "  I  guess  you  weren't  ever  as  young  as  I  am, 
Judge,  anyway.  You  seem  to  think  I'm  a  rotten  bad 
lot  just  because  I  like  to  take  a  glass  now  and  then 
and  go  out  with  the  boys.  You  drink  your  mint- 
julep  all  right  enough.  And  I'll  bet  whoever  you 
had  to  dinner  to-night  took  as  much  as  I've  had 
under  my  vest.  The  only  difference  is  /  haven't  had 


THE  UNLAID  GHOST  45 

any  dinner.  It  does  make  a  difference,  I  assure 
you." 

His  father's  hand  was  still  extended  to  the  wall. 
"  I  said  good  night,  Chisholm." 

Chilly  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Oh,  what's  the 
use?  "  he  said  listlessly,  and  went  unsteadily  out  by 
the  rear  door. 

The  Judge  snapped  off  the  switch,  and  putting 
out  the  light  in  the  library,  ascended  the  stair.  The 
hard  look  had  deepened  on  his  face.  As  he  gazed  at 
that  nonchalant  epitome  of  ribaldry  he  had  thought 
of  other  men  who  had  so  often  been  grouped  about 
the  table  in  that  room  —  men  of  tempered  habit,  of 
standing  and  achievement.  His  own  son  had  con- 
tempt for  such  company.  It  bored  him.  He  pre- 
ferred to  "  go  out  with  the  boys  "  and  to  come  home 
in  the  small  hours  —  as  he  had  to-night.  So  he  was 
thinking  as  he  entered  the  room  above.  There  he 
stopped  in  surprise,  for  across  the  threshold  stood 
his  wife.  She  was  in  her  night-gown,  over  which 
she  had  thrown  a  robe  of  pale  crepe  with  lace  at  the 
neck  and  wrists.  Her  face  showed  a  heightened 
colour  and  her  lips  were  trembling.  He  drew  for- 
ward a  chair. 

"  I  thought  you  were  asleep  long  ago,"  he  said. 

She  declined  the  seat  with  a  gesture.  "  I  heard 
your  voices.  What  did  you  say  to  Chilly?  " 

"  I  said  *  Good  night,'  "  he  answered  heavily. 
"  That  was  about  all." 


46       THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

Her  lip  curled.  The  glance  she  gave  him  was 
critically  cold.  When  she  married  Beverly  Allen 
she  had  loved  him  —  in  so  far  as  she  had  been  ca- 
pable of  loving.  To  her  marriage  had  meant  the 
assumption  of  woman's  predestined  place  in  the  so- 
cial fabric,  the  inevitable  change  of  habit  which  time 
brings  to  all,  with  its  widened  orbit  and  oppor- 
tunities. She  had  been  drawn  to  him  by  every  in- 
stinct of  selection  which  took  count  of  name,  stand- 
ing, worldly  endowment  and  mental  equipment;  but 
there  had  been  behind  it  no  throb  of  maidenly  im- 
pulse, no  thrill  of  the  great  current  that  feeds  the 
romance  of  the  world.  The  one  point  at  which  life 
for  her  caught  and  focused  had  been  the  son,  whose 
misconduct  stood  so  sharply  out  against  the  spotless 
Allen  name.  He  was  her  one  weakness,  her  love 
for  him  an  unreasoning  passion  that  had  swayed  her 
from  his  birth.  To  her  his  transgressions  showed 
as  venial,  his  delinquencies  as  but  the  forgivable  er- 
rors of  youth.  The  few  instances  in  which  he  had 
been  openly  called  to  task  by  his  father  had  been 
sharpened  in  the  latter's  memory  by  her  resentment. 
But  on  none  of  these  occasions  had  her  husband 
seen  her  so  moved  as  now.  He  did  not  know  that 
for  many  minutes  she  had  stood  on  the  dark  landing 
listening  to  the  murmurous  voices,  and  that  now  she 
resented  what  seemed  to  her  a  deliberate  evasion. 
She  spoke  with  slow,  even  point : 

"  As  a  monologist  Chilly  is  a  distinct  surprise. 
Was  he  saying  *  good  night '  also?  " 


THE  UNLAID  GHOST  47 

Under  the  unaccustomed  anger  of  her  voice  the 
Judge's  pale  face  flushed.  He  took  off  the  eye- 
shade  and  set  it  on  the  table,  as  he  replied  evenly: 

"  Chilly  is  not  himself  to-night,  Charlotte.  Does 
it  matter  particularly  what  he  said?  " 

Beneath  his  voice  now  there  was  a  kind  of  subter- 
ranean compassion,  a  note  almost  of  entreaty,  as 
though  in  this  trouble  that  touched  them  both  he 
could  have  wished  to  comfort  her,  if,  indeed,  she  had 
made  that  possible. 

She  made  an  involuntary  movement  —  not  a  sign 
that  a  chord  had  been  touched,  but  rather  a  mark  of 
agitation.  Chilly  was  the  one  subject  upon  which 
she  could  not  bring  to  bear  the  tempered  reason 
which  otherwise  marshalled  her  even  life.  It 
seemed  to  her  now  that  she  was  being  thrust  aside, 
in  the  interest  of  some  new  plan  of  discipline  and  co- 
ertion.  She  turned  swiftly  on  her  husband. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  it  should  make  no  difference 
to  me !  "  Her  eyes  blazed.  "  You  are  so  sure  you 
understand  Chilly !  You  —  his  father  —  have  you 
ever  really  known  him  all  his  life?  Does  he  ever 
come  to  you  when  he  is  in  trouble  or  needs  advice?  " 

Her  voice  held  a  bitter  sarcasm  and  again  the 
flush  swept  up  the  Judge's  pale  face.  But  his  voice 
was  emotionless  as  he  said,  "  Chilly  never  felt  the 
need  of  advice  from  any  one.  He  goes  his  own 
sweet  way." 

"  That  is  just  it!  "  she  said.  "  You  set  yourself 
so  far  above  him.  You  have  such  a  contempt  for 


48        THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

his  pleasures  and  so  thoroughly  despise  the  company 
he  keeps.  Suppose  he  has  a  taste  for  liquor.  He 
is  still  a  gentleman,  I  believe.  But  you,  with  your 
solemn  rectitude  and  your  touch-me-not  self-right- 
eousness —  you  would  drive  him  to  the  very  people 
and  places  he  ought  to  keep  away  from !  " 

He  stared  at  her.  "  I  have  never  regarded  my 
repugnance  to  his  habits  as  inducing  him  to  further 
excesses,"  he  said  slowly.  "  Nor  have  I  set  myself 
up  as  preacher.  Perhaps  I  have  never  understood 
him  as  —  you  do.  I  only  know  that  his  ways  are 
not  my  ways.  He  has  had  every  advantage  that 
education  and  environment  can  confer.  He  is  older 
than  I  was  when  I  began  practice.  But  what  is  he 
making  of  his  life?  He  thinks  of  nothing  but  play- 
ing fast  and  loose  at  country-houses  and  loafing  at 
the  club  and  acting  the  fop  and  the  fool  generally !  " 

Her  shaking  hand  was  plucking  at  the  lace  at  her 
throat.  His  every  word  had  been  a  live  coal  laid  to 
her  resentment.  "  Is  that  the  worst  you  can  say  of 
him?"  she  asked.  "Can't  you  call  him  sot  or 
black-leg?  " 

"  Not  yet."  He  was  feeling  now  a  dull  anger 
at  her  scorn,  at  her  persistent  disapproval.  The 
throb  of  sympathy  he  had  first  felt  had  been  frozen 
by  her  icy  reproach.  "  There  are  other  things  I 
wish  to  be  able  to  say  of  my  son.  I  want  him  to  be 
more  than  a  decorative  philanderer.  I  want  him  to 
be  a  man  —  one  to  whom  men  may  look  for  manli- 
ness, and  women  for  honour !  " 


THE  UNLAID  GHOST  49 

She  had  grown  pale  to  the  lips.  "  'And  women 
for  honour!  '  "  she  repeated.  "  As  /  looked  to  — 
you!  " 

He  had  flung  out  his  arm  with  a  characteristic 
gesture,  but  at  her  last  words  it  suddenly  stiffened 
and  remained,  as  if  it  had  been  frozen  in  the  air. 
Slowly  it  dropped  at  his  side  as  he  stared  at  her 
with  ashen  face  —  a  look  of  shocked  and  discon- 
certed inquiry.  For  the  exclamation,  as  at  the  swift 
slash  of  a  blade,  had  torn  away  a  veil,  woven  of  time 
and  habit,  that  covered  an  old  wound.  For  twenty 
years  by  tacit  consent  this  hidden  thing  of  the  past 
had  never  been  acknowledged  by  any  word  or  deed 
between  them.  Now  a  single  sentence  had  laid  it 
bare,  quick  and  quivering  and  mutually  confessed. 
They  had  been  married  twenty-two  years,  and  if  in 
that  early  period  he  had  discerned  any  lack  in  her, 
he  had  given  her  no  reproaches.  On  her  part,  she 
had  fulfilled  what  she  esteemed  her  whole  duty,  and 
in  her  own  mind  stood  blameless.  And  he  had 
had  his  profession.  But  in  the  end  starved  nature 
had  reasserted  itself.  There  had  come  to  him  a  pas- 
sion, swift  and  terrible  while  it  lasted,  to  which  he 
had  surrendered  wholly  —  till  death  swept  it  from 
him.  The  gall  and  wormwood  had  been  sweetened 
then  by  the  birth,  in  merciful  coincidence  with  that 
loss,  of  his  twin  children.  He  had  thought  the  epi- 
sode buried  forever  from  sight  and  hearing,  but  a 
later  chance  had  discovered  it  to  his  wife,  and  in 
her  own  immaculateness  she  had  been  able  neither 


50        THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

to  forget  nor  to  forgive.  It  had  made  no  difference 
in  her  life  before  their  world.  Cold  and  perfect 
and  correct,  she  had  held  her  way,  but  from  the 
day  when  she  had  faced  him  with  his  secret  in  her 
hand,  their  hearts  had  been  strangers  to  one  an- 
other. He  had  climbed  high  and  she  had  risen 
with  him.  And  in  twenty  years  no  word  had  fallen 
from  her  lips  to  open  that  old  tomb  —  till  to-night 
when  the  heavy  doors  swung  ajar  at  the  echo  of  that 
one  exclamation. 

"  As  /  looked  to  —  you!  "  There  it  was  —  the 
old  ghost,  called  up  to  haunt  his  present  as  it  had 
waylaid  his  past.  His  hand  fumbled  for  the  dis- 
carded eye-shade  and  adjusted  it  as  he  slowly  said: 

"  I  have  never  counted  myself  a  pattern,  Charlotte 
—  least  of  all  for  my  own  son." 

She  caught  the  note  of  pain  and  weariness  now 
in  his  voice,  and  something  new  and  unaccustomed 
stirred  for  one  brief  moment  in  her  heart.  She  had 
struck  harder  than  she  had  intended.  But  she  had 
lost  control  at  a  critical  moment  and  old  bitterness, 
that  had  never  been  tinctured  with  the  sweetness  of 
charity  and  forgiveness,  had  sharpened  her  tongue. 
Now  his  shocked  white  face  smote  her  with  a  sense 
of  self-reproach  whose  very  strangeness  threw  her 
momentarily  off  her  poise.  For  a  fleeting  second 
words  trembled  on  her  tongue  that  might  have  dis- 
solved the  icy  barrier  between  them.  But  the  golden 
second  passed. 

"  That  is  generous,"  she  said  with  a  distant  laugh. 


THE  UNLAID  GHOST  51 

"  No  doubt  Chilly  will  profit  by  experience,  if  not 
by  precept.     Shall  you  be  at  court  to-morrow?  " 
"  Yes,"  he  answered.     "  I  have  a  hearing." 
"  You  will  prefer  the  horses,  then,"  she  said,  turn- 
ing to  the  door.     "  I  will  take  the  electric  for  my 
shopping.     Good  night." 

He  opened  the  door  for  her.     "  Good  night,"  he 
said. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   JUDGE   SITS   IN   THE    LAMPLIGHT 

IN  the  silence  of  the  room  the  Judge  stood  for 
a  moment  with  his  hand  at  his  lips,  as  though 
he  tasted  blood.  The  summer  night  outside 
was  very  still.  The  curtain  before  one  of  the  win- 
dows swayed  gently  in  the  air  and  from  the  acacia 
trees  on  the  lawn  he  could  hear  the  sleepy  twitter 
of  on  oriole.  He  turned  off  the  light  and  went 
into  the  hall.  There  at  one  side  stood  the  white, 
panelled  door  of  his  wife's  room.  It  was  shut.  It 
came  to  him  that  it  stood  for  a  perfect  symbol  of 
that  cold  immaculateness  of  hers  which  had  so  long 
denied  him  the  living  bread  of  sympathy.  She 
could  forgive  anything  in  her  son,  but  nothing  in  her 
husband.  For  twenty  long  years  they  two  might 
have  dwelt  at  opposite  ends  of  the  Milky  Way,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  suddenly  monstrous,  whatever  the 
cause,  whosesoever  the  fault,  that  they,  being  man 
and  wife,  should  yet  be  so  far  apart. 

He  went  slowly  down  the  stair  again,  his  hand, 
shaking  a  little,  slipping  along  the  polished  banister. 
The  dim  night-light  made  the  lower  hall  a  place  of 
ghostly  shadows.  He  re-entered  the  library,  moved 
to  the  table  and  turned  on  the  reading-lamp.  Then, 
lifting  it  to  the  limit  of  its  silken  cord,  he  threw  the 

52 


IN  THE  LAMPLIGHT  53 

electric  glow  upon  the  canvas  that  hung  above  the 
mantel,  studying  it  intently. 

"  Mine !  "  he  muttered,  with  a  sort  of  fierce  satis- 
faction. "  Mine,  every  inch  —  mine,  not  Char- 
lotte's! My  blood  gave  you  that  curve  of  brow 
and  those  full  lips  and  that  deep,  dark  blue  of  eye 
—  they  are  of  my  side,  not  of  hers !  You,  at  least 
belong  to  me !  " 

He  returned  the  lamp  to  its  place,  and  turning, 
cast  his  glance  at  the  little  Italian  desk  in  the  corner. 
His  lips  trembled.  At  that  desk  she  had  sat  —  the 
woman  knowledge  of  whom  had  sharpened  the 
sword  of  his  wife's  never-dying  disdain.  The 
woman  who  had  come  into  his  life  too  late!  He 
thought  of  their  meetings,  few  enough,  indeed. 
How  often  he  had  wondered  how  life  would  have 
turned  for  him,  if  at  the  end  she  had  listened  to 
his  desperate  pleading,  and  gone  with  him  along 
that  alluring  way  that  had  drawn  him  like  an  opal 
path  among  Italian  asphodels,  flinging  to  the  winds 
social  standing,  reputation,  career,  friends,  honour, 
all !  If  she  had  said  "  yes  "  to  that  wild  letter  he 
had  sent  her  —  the  one  to  which  she  had  vouch- 
safed no  reply  —  which  might  have  been  written  in 
his  very  heart's  blood ! 

He  looked  again  at  the  painted  portrait  of  Echo, 
in  her  splendid  youth  and  clean  heritage :  the  answer 
was  there. 

He  sat  down  before  the  little  desk,  stretched  his 
arms  upon  it  and  bowed  his  head  upon  them.  "  You 


54       THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

were  right,  Eleanor,"  he  sighed.  "  You  were  right. 
But  somehow  it's  been  so  long!  " 

He  felt  a  fluttering  touch  upon  his  hair  and  started 
up.  There  before  him  on  the  desk  lay  a  faded  leaf 
of  paper  —  a  page  closely  written  over  in  twirly, 
dim  writing.  He  lifted  it  up  and  held  it  to  the  light, 
his  nostrils  catching  a  scent  wraith-frail  and  delicate, 
like  a  dead  pansy's  ghost  — 

No  —  no  —  no !  Why  did  you  write  it  ?  Why 
did  you  put  it  into  words  ?  For  now  I  must  keep  it 
always.  I  cannot  destroy  it.  You  knew  I  would 
not  —  could  not  —  let  you  do  what  you  beg  me  to ! 
Never,  never!  I  am  not  so  mad.  Nor  are  you, 
really.  It  is  not  your  best  self  speaking  in  this  let- 
ter. Sometime  — 

His  gaze  became  fixed.  He  gave  a  hoarse  cry  — 
a  mist  was  before  his  eyes.  He  snatched  at  the 
top  of  the  yellowed  sheet  —  it  was  dated  twenty 
years  before,  and  the  hand-writing,  how  familiar! 
He  laid  the  leaf  flat  in  the  lamp-light  and  read  it 
through,  with  every  nerve  throbbing  to  a  memory 
that  had  started  afresh,  as  instinct  as  though  days, 
not  years,  had  sifted  their  dust  upon  it: 

Sometime  you  will  thank  me  —  will  think  of  this 
only  as  a  ghastly  indiscretion  from  which  you  were 
caught  away  in  time.  We  do  not  make  the  world 
we  live  in,  and  it  is  a  thousand  times  stronger  than 
we  are.  No,  if  we  play  the  game  we  must  stick  to 
the  rules.  To  think  of  overstepping  that  boundary, 
in  such  a  desperate  fashion,  gives  my  fastidious  sense 


IN  THE  LAMPLIGHT  55 

a  strange  recoil  —  something  like  that  curious  shame 
and  confusion  that  associates  itsjdf  with  a  dream  in 
which  one  finds  one's-self  scantily  clad  in  the  midst 
of  wondering  strangers !  No  —  no !  I  do  not 
think  I  shall  send  this  letter  —  but  perhaps  I  may 
at  the  end.  For  I  am  going  away.  I  sail  to- 
morrow. Shall  I  see  you  again  —  ever  —  ever? 
What  will  you  think  — 

That  was  all.  It  broke  off  abruptly  as  though 
the  writer  had  laid  it  aside,  never  to  be  finished. 

In  the  silent  library  the  Judge  looked  at  that 
mute  witness  as  at  one  risen  from  the  dead.  Twenty 
years  of  absence  and  silence  —  twenty  years  out  of 
his  ken,  save  to  the  thriving  memory!  For  how 
long  the  hand  that  had  penned  those  lines  had  been 
dust,  yet  the  poor  symbols  of  ink  and  paper  per- 
sisted to  confront  him  now!  How  had  the  sheet 
come  to  be  on  that  desk  that  she  had  bequeathed 
him?  It  had  not  lain  there  a  moment  before. 

He  brought  the  lamp  and  examined  the  desk 
attentively,  pulling  out  every  tiny  drawer,  sounding 
each  carved  partition,  twisting  and  tugging  at  every 
projecting  portion  of  the  ornamentation.  With  a 
thin,  metal  paper-knife  he  explored  each  warp  and 
crevice.  But  his  search  was  fruitless.  If  the  leaf 
had  slipped  from  some  crack  —  loosened,  perhaps, 
by  the  fall  of  the  brass  bowl  upon  it  that  day  —  the 
old  desk  kept  its  secret. 

A  strange  feeling  stole  over  him,  the  feeling  of 
mystery  that  comes  to  one  with  some  sudden  apposi- 


5  6        THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

tion  of  incident  that  thrills  with  a  sense  of  an  over- 
powering meaning  in  a  circumstance  in  itself  banal 
and  trivial.  Something  of  her  proud  and  passionate 
spirit  she  had  etched  into  those  lines.  Might  it  be 
that  spirit,  somewhere  in  the  great  void,  reached  out 
to  him  through  this  silent  witness  —  to  say  that  love 
does  not  wholly  die? 

He  gently  spoke  her  name.  "  Eleanor !  You 
forgave  me  for  writing  —  that.  If  you  hadn't  you 
wouldn't  have  left  me  this  desk  when  you  —  died, 
away  over  there  in  Florence!  So  I've  got  your 
letter  at  last." 

He  sighed  again  and  groping  for  his  big  chair, 
sat  down,  with  the  sheet  of  paper  spread  out  upon 
his  knee. 

On  the  upper  floor  Mrs.  Allen  tapped  lightly  on 
Chilly's  door  and  when  there  was  no  answer,  opened 
it  softly  and  entered.  At  the  whisper  of  his  name 
he  started  up  in  bed. 

"  Duchess !  "  he  exclaimed. 

The  pet  name,  as  always,  touched  her.  It  was 
a  perennial  tribute  to  that  stateliness  and  dignity 
which  she  had  made  her  own.  She  came  and  sat 
down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  he  caught  her 
hand  and  held  it  to  his  lips.  "  You  shouldn't  have 
come,"  he  chided.  "  You'll  take  cold." 

"  I  heard  your  father  talking  to  you,"  she  whis- 
pered. "  You  —  you  know  what  he  dislikes  so. 
Why  can  you  not  be  —  discrete?  " 


IN  THE  LAMPLIGHT  57 

Chilly  moved  uneasily:  "  Oh,  I  know,"  he  said. 
"  But  I  can't  always  be  giving  an  imitation  of  a 
quaker  meeting!  I'm  not  a  child." 

"  You  must  not  anger  him,"  she  said.  "I  —  for 
my  sake,  I  wish  you  would  be  more  careful." 

He  patted  her  hand.  "  All  right,  Duchess  I 
I'll  mind  my  p's  and  q's.  But  you  must  go  back 
to  bed  now.  Don't  you  worry  about  me." 

She  bent  down  and  kissed  him  on  the  forehead 
before  she  glided  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  VII 

ARROWS   OF   DESIRE 

"  TT   T  ERE  is  the  new  rose,"  said  Echo.     "  Its 

I 1    name  is  the  Laurant  Carle." 

•••  -*-  Cameron  Craig  looked  —  at  her,  not  at 
the  blossom.  She  was  in  simple  white  and  as  she 
stood  there  in  the  perfumed  garden,  vivid,  ele- 
mental, tuned  to  the  wonder  and  passion  of  living, 
her  slim  figure  outlined  against  the  dark  green  shrub- 
bery and  her  face  and  gold-bronze  hair  touched  with 
the  slanting  sunlight,  she  seemed  herself  some  great, 
rare,  golden  flower  in  a  silver  sheath.  Lines  he 
had  somewhere  read  sprang  into  his  mind: 

"  Bring  me  my  bow  of  burning  gold, 
Bring  me  my  arrows  of  desire," 

and,  contained  man  that  he  was,  he  caught  his 
breath  at  the  sudden  leap  in  him  of  the  thing  that 
had  been  covered  and  hidden  there  so  long,  some- 
thing fine  and  keen  as  flame,  that  set  his  habitually 
cool  blood  beating  under  his  eyelids. 

"  It  was  not  the  rose,"  he  said.  "  I  had  another 
reason  in  asking  you  to  come  here." 

"Yes?"     Her  voice  was  evenly  inquiring. 

"  It  was  to  ask  you  if  you  will  marry  me." 

She  took  a  quick  step  backward;  a  look  of  amaze 
58 


ARROWS  OF  DESIRE  59 

had  sprung  to  her  face.  "I?"  she  exclaimed. 
"  You  want  me  to  —  marry  you  ?  " 

"Yes.     Is  there  anything  strange  in  that?" 

She  looked  away.  In  all  her  thoughts  of  the  man 
before  her  there  had  not  lurked  this  possibility.  She 
had  been  bred  among  youth  who,  whatever  their 
other  vices,  maintained  a  chivalric  ideal  of  woman- 
kind which  excluded  fast-and-loose  conduct;  and  the 
whispers  that  clung  about  Cameron  Craig  —  set,  as 
they  were,  over  against  his  force  and  undeniably 
brilliant  attainments  —  had  lent  her  opinion  of  him 
a  certain  cold  contempt.  And  now  here  he  was  — 
he  of  all  men !  —  saying  this  to  her !  And  it  was 
no  hasty  impulse :  she  read  that  in  the  steady,  confi- 
dent eyes,  the  hard,  heavy  jaw,  the  steadfast,  deep- 
lined  face. 

She  felt  his  waiting  gaze.  "  No,"  she  answered, 
slowly.  "  Perhaps  it  is  not  strange.  It  is  only  that 
the  unexpected  seems  so."  She  looked  at  him  curi- 
ously. "Why  did  you  ask  me  —  to-day?" 

"  The  opportunity  came,"  he  said.  "  It  must 
have,  sooner  or  later." 

"  So  you  have  intended  for  some  time  to  say  this 
tome?" 

"  Since  I  first  met  you,  a  year  ago,"  he  answered. 
"  You  have  two  things  that  I  want  —  as  I  have  their 
complements." 

She  considered  this  a  moment.  "  Forgive  me," 
she  said  then,  "  but  I  am  a  very  curious  person  — • 
as  well,  it  seems,  as  a  very  blind  one.  Would  you 


60        THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

mind  telling  me  what  are  those  two  qualities  that 
you  imagine  I  possess,  which  you  value  so  highly?  " 

"  Breeding,  first,"  he  replied,  "  and  all  that  it 
implies.  You  represent  a  stock." 

She  nodded  gravely.  "  And  the  other  desidera- 
tum?" 

"  Beauty.  You  are  the  most  beautiful  woman  I 
have  ever  seen." 

"And  —  the  complements  of  these  things,  that 
you  possess?  " 

"  Money,"  he  answered.  "  And  the  power  it 
gives  —  the  accessories  which  a  woman  like  you 
must  have  if  she  would  really  live.  I  think  you  don't 
doubt  that  my  wife  shall  have  these  things." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  Not  in  the  least.  In- 
deed, I  am  sure  she  will.  But  you  see,  Mr.  Craig, 
I  happen  to  be  not  at  all  the  sort  of  person  you 
think  I  am  —  the  kind  you  wish  to  marry." 

"  I'll  risk  that !  "  he  flung  her. 

"  The  proof  is  that  you  ask  me  —  as  you  have. 
The  things  you  have  to  offer  seem  overwhelmingly 
attractive  to  you,  no  doubt,  but  I'm  afraid  they  mean 
much  less  to  me."  He  could  not  see  the  look  that 
was  in  her  face  now,  for  her  head  was  turned  away. 
"  I  have  no  longing  for  money.  I  could  be  con- 
tented in  a  mountain  lean-to,  with  morning-glories 
instead  of  an  orchid  conservatory.  I  could  cook  my 
own  meals  on  a  gas-stove  and  live  in  one  room 
over  a  hardware  store  —  with  the  man  I  loved.  I 
don't  care  particularly  for  what  you  call  *  place ' 


ARROWS  OF  DESIRE  61 

either.  I  could  be  happy  enough  on  a  prairie  — 
with  the  man  I  loved.  But  love  must  be  there,  Mr. 
Craig." 

"  Do  you  doubt  my  love  for  you?  "  he  asked. 

"  You  had  not  cited  it,"  she  rejoined,  calmly. 
"  You  spoke  of  money  first — " 

"  Because  I  have  lived  long  enough  to  know  that 
it  is  the  paramount  requisite  in  most  women's  eyes." 

"  Your  estimate  of  me  by  the  mass  was  flattering," 
she  said  with  gentle  satire.  "  Have  you  been  so 
busy  making  this  wonderful  money  of  yours  that 
you  think  it  can  take  the  place  of  everything?  " 

He  made  an  abrupt,  almost  angered,  gesture. 
"  Surely  you  know  money  means  —  has  meant  — 
nothing  to  me!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  am  rich,  yes. 
I  dare  say  I  could  buy  and  sell  almost  any  one  you 
know.  But  it  was  never  the  main  thing.  It  was 
winning  that  counted.  It  was  the  game,  and  money 
was  only  the  counters.  I  played  to  win  and  I  have 
won.  And  wealth  was  a  stepping-stone  to  other 
things." 

His  voice  had  subtly  altered  and  he  drew  closer 
to  her  where  she  stood,  moveless  and  straight 
against  the  dark  foliage,  her  gaze  averted.  "  Then 
—  I  met  you !  I  have  known  many  women,  but 
they  have  been  nothing,  less  than  nothing,  to  me! 
Business  has  been  the  only  thing  that  really  counted. 
But  since  I  met  you,  the  whole  world  has  been 
changing  for  me.  Even  my  work  isn't  the  main 
thing  to  me  any  more.  The  main  thing  is  you!  " 


62        THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

She  lifted  her  eyes,  wide  with  the  swift  sense  of 
the  unexpected  —  touched  now  with  an  odd,  dis- 
quieting prescience.  His  voice  was  no  longer  the 
cold,  even  voice  of  the  Cameron  Craig  she  had 
known.  There  was  passion  in  it.  She  saw  his  big 
hand  tremble. 

"  There  has  never  been  a  day  or  hour  since  then 
when  I  have  not  wanted  you!  You  have  entered 
into  my  blood  and  my  brain,  and  the  want  of  you 
has  coloured  all  I  have  thought  and  done !  If  this 
is  love,  then  I  love  you  —  Echo,  Echo !  " 

She  shrank  perceptibly  at  the  name  on  his  lips. 
"Stop!"  she  said.  "The  love  you  talk  of  must 
be  mutual.  I  do  not  —  care  for  you  in  that  way. 
I  never  could!  " 

"  That  makes  no  difference  to  me !  "  he  protested. 
"  I  know  what  I  want  —  I  always  have.  And  I 
want  you." 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  It  is  not  the  real  me  that  you 
want,  but  we  can  pass  that  by.  The  important  fact 
is  that  you  have  offered  your  last  price  and  the  bid 
is  declined." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  sudden  flash  in  his  eyes. 
"  Do  I  deserve  that?  "  He  had  grown  pale  to  the 
lips. 

"  Yes,  you  do.  I  have  told  you  that  I  should 
never  love  you.  Yet  that  means  less  than  nothing 
to  you.  You  have  apparently  not  considered  my 
possible  love  as  a  requisite  in  the  case.  It  is  *  breed- 
ing '  you  want,  and  beauty  —  and  for  that  you  make 


"I  have  answered  you/'  she  replied,  "once  and  for 
all.     You  will  please  consider  it  final" 


ARROWS  OF  DESIRE  63 

your  offer.  You  propose  purchase,  not  exchange, 
Mr.  Craig.  Well,  I  am  not  for  sale!  " 

He  flushed  to  his  hair  a  dark,  heavy  red.  He 
appeared  to  be  controlling  himself  by  a  fierce  effort. 
"  Don't  answer  me  now,"  he  said.  "  Let  me  speak 
to  you  again  later." 

"  I  have  answered  you,"  she  replied,  "  once  and 
for  all.  You  will  please  consider  it  final." 

A  whirl  of  what  seemed  almost  rage  shook  him; 
with  a  single  stride  he  reached  her  and  seized  both 
her  hands.  "Is  there  —  another  man?"  There 
was  what  startled  her  now  in  the  harsh,  hard  voice. 

She  stiffened.  "Well,"  she  said,  "—and  if 
there  is?" 

At  the  chill  quiet  of  her  voice  all  the  vicious 
strength  and  intolerance  of  the  man  blazed  out. 
"You  are  right!"  he  said  savagely.  "It  could 
make  no  difference  to  me!  I  will  not  take  your 
answer  —  do  you  understand  ?  In  time  you  will 
give  me  a  different  one.  I  have  waited  for  other 
things  and  I  have  had  them  in  the  end.  I  can  wait 
for  you !  " 

He  released  her  hands  —  so  violently  that  she 
fell  back  a  step.  Then,  while  she  stood  regarding 
him  in  shocked  and  indignant  amaze,  summoning 
all  her  forces  to  meet  this  fury  that  had  both  aston- 
ished and  repelled  her,  his  face  swiftly  changed. 
The  flush  of  anger  ebbed,  the  flash  died  in  his  eyes. 

Once  again  his  accustomed  self,  with  the  steady, 
confident  eyes  and  swing  of  shoulder,  he  drew  aside 


64       THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

to  let  her  pass  and  followed  her  along  the  box- 
bordered  path  to  the  piazza. 

As  they  entered  the  blue-parlour,  a  lady  very 
smart  in  black-and-white,  and  a  sailor-hat  whose 
girlish  brim  youthened  her  mature  beauty,  rose  from 
her  seat  with  Mrs.  Allen  and  Nancy  Langham, 
Echo's  house-guest,  a  slight,  glowing  girl  of  nine- 
teen, with  eyes  like  marigolds  in  shade. 

"  Well,  Echo,"  she  said,  "  I  thought  you  never 
would  appear.  I  just  ran  in  to  remind  you  that 
you  and  Nancy  promised  to  come  to  my  dinner 
to-night  at  the  *  Farm.'  I've  asked  some  of  the 
youngsters  out  for  a  little  dance  afterward."  She 
smiled  a  brilliant  recognition  to  the  heavy  figure 
behind  her. 

"Mr.  Craig!"  she  exclaimed.  "So  you  are  in 
town!  How  nice  it  would  be  of  you  to  come  too. 
Or  do  you  find  country-club  gaieties  too  stale  and 
unprofitable?  " 

He  bowed  over  her  hand.  "  My  dear  Mrs. 
Spottiswoode !  "  he  said.  "This  is  my  lucky  day! 
I  shall  be  more  than  delighted !  " 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   THRUST 

THE  "  Farm,"  as  the  Country-Club  was  popu- 
larly known  to  its  habitues,  was  a  long, 
three-storied  structure  of  red  brick  on  the 
selvedge  of  the  southern  suburb,  set  in  a  grove  of 
maple  trees  facing  a  lake  whose  still  depths  were 
stirred  by  budding  water-lilies,  like  the  breasts  of 
young  girls.  With  its  golf-links,  and  tennis-courts 
and  its  ball-room  which  formed  an  L  at  one  side, 
its  white,  balustraded  verandahs,  it  was  the  favoured 
resort  of  both  the  frivolous  and  athletic;  its  monthly 
dances  were  the  gayest  of  the  season's  informal 
functions  and  on  Saturday  evenings  its  row  of  little 
dining-rooms,  that  looked  out  on  a  gentle  slope  of 
shrubbery  and  gravelled  walks  pricked  out  with 
paper  lanterns,  were  favourite  resorts  for  small 
dinner-parties. 

Mrs.  Spottiswoode's  dinners  were  apt  to  have  a 
pleasurable  sprinkling  of  youth  and  sobriety  and 
to-night  the  dozen  of  the  younger  set  found  sufficient 
foil  in  the  fashionable  rector  of  St.  Andrews  in 
clerical  dress  relieved  only  by  the  tiny  amethyst  cross 
that  swung  upon  his  waistcoat  —  in  Senator  Peyton, 
party-whip  at  Washington  and  one  of  the  state's 
65 


66        THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

distinguished  citizens,  with  piercing  sword-grey  eyes 
under  brows  as  black  as  midnight  —  and  finally  in 
Cameron  Craig. 

As  Echo  Allen  had  said  to  her  father,  the  latter 
was  not  "  one  of  them."  The  phrase  to  her  had 
been  an  instinctive  expression  of  that  subtle  sense  of 
caste  that  had  been  born  in  her,  springing  from  long 
lines  of  gentle  ancestors  that  linked  back  beyond  the 
days  of  the  Old  Dominion.  But  the  distinction  lay 
deep  in  the  mental  formula  of  the  man:  it  was  not 
to  be  perceived  in  externals.  To-night,  in  his  fault- 
less evening-dress,  with  his  keen,  strong  face  and 
assured  manner,  he  had  an  air  even  of  distinction 
that  well  became  him,  and  the  instant's  painful  em- 
barrassment that  Echo  felt  as  her  hand  touched  his 
in  their  first  greeting  yielded  quickly  to  an  unwilling 
admiration  of  his  poise  and  control.  If  that  flare 
of  passion  in  the  garden  had  left  its  traces,  they 
had  been  successfully  covered.  He  was  once  more 
the  Cameron  Craig  she  had  known  —  till  yesterday. 

But  beneath  that  unruffled  exterior  Craig's  every 
pulse  was  in  tumult.  At  table  he  found  himself 
opposite  Echo.  The  decorations  were  red  roses 
and  in  a  ruby  gown  with  a  single  rose  in  the  coil 
of  her  tawny  hair,  she  seemed  to  him  an  inherent 
part  of  the  scheme,  a  ruby  pendent  to  the  rich, 
shimmering  setting.  There  had  been  many  women 
to  whom  he  had  been  passingly  attracted  —  his 
tastes  had  been  catholic  enough  in  that  regard !  But 
he  had  never  seen  one  whom  he  had  wished  to  marry. 


THE  THRUST  67 

He  had  spoken  truly  when  he  said  that  the  women 
he  had  known  had  really  meant  nothing  to  him. 
His  licenses  had  been  but  incidents  after  all.  They 
had  not  ministered  to  the  mental  side  of  his  nature, 
whereas  this  passion  had  taken  swift  and  complete 
possession.  As  he  saw  her  now,  her  cheeks  flushing 
to  the  glow  of  the  candles  and  her  eyes  like  softly 
lighted  sapphires,  he  felt  open  wide  within  him  an 
abyss  that  thronged  thick  with  distempered  imagin- 
ings. There  was  another  man!  She  had  not  de- 
nied it.  And  with  the  thought  there  grew  in  him  a 
slow,  cold  hatred  and  determination. 

Yet  his  face,  as  Echo  glanced  across  the  roses, 
betrayed  no  sign  of  disquiet.  He  was  apparently 
listening  amusedly  to  the  small-talk  of  his  partner, 
Nancy  Langham,  in  a  gown  of  pale  gauze  that  made 
her  look  like  a  small,  eager  tiger-lily  caught  in  a 
hampering  cloud.  In  the  interstices  of  conversation 
Echo  could  catch  whiffs  of  her  laughing  nonsense: 

"  Isn't  Dr.  Custis  quite  wickedly  handsome  for  a 
rector!  I've  been  instructed  not  to  ask  him  if  he 
is  related  to  Martha  Washington.  The  man  across 
from  Mrs.  Spottiswoode  is  Richard  Brent,  he  is 
'  The  Herald,'  and  a  power  in  the  community,  I 
believe.  Our  hostess  is  wearing  the  new  wave;  it 
costs  a  lot,  but  they  say  it's  guaranteed  to  last  six 
months.  And  to  think,"  she  sighed,  "  that  Melissa, 
my  maid,  spends  a  dollar  a  week  trying  to  have  her 
wool  ironed  straight!  The  man  with  the  goatee, 
who  looks  so  Spanishy,  is  Mr.  Horace  Leighton,  the 


68        THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

New  York  artist  who  is  doing  the  mural  paintings 
for  the  new  City  Hall  here." 

"  So  there  isn't  any  one  here  who  isn't  anybody !  " 
.Craig  observed. 

"  Only  me,"  she  said.  "  The  reason  I'm  asked 
is  because  I'm  frivolous.  I'm  supposed  to  offset  the 
feast  of  reason  with  bubbles  and  froth." 

"  At  any  rate,"  remarked  the  senator,  "  serious- 
ness is  not  to  fall  in  arrears.  Down  at  the  other 
end  they  have  actually  got  to  politics." 

Echo's  glance  followed  his.  Their  hostess  was 
holding  a  glass  of  wine  between  her  eye  and  the 
candle-light,  which  splashed  a  bright  crimson  ray 
on  her  pretty  face.  It  was  the  rector  who  was 
speaking : 

"  As  for  myself,  I'm  afraid  I'm  a  friend  to  all 
the  old,  hackneyed  arguments.  *  If  meat  maketh 
my  brother  to  offend,'  you  know."  He  pointed  to 
his  wine-glass,  which,  with  the  arrival  of  the  soup, 
he  had  turned  upside-down.  "  You  see  I  am  con- 
sistent." 

"  Politics?  "  queried  Echo.  "  It  seems  to  be  only 
teetotalism." 

"  Ah,"  the  senator  answered,  "  but  it's  coming  to 
be  the  same  thing  nowadays." 

"  One  understands  the  individual  objection  on 
moral  grounds,"  said  Mrs.  Spottiswoode.  "  That's 
a  matter  of  personal  belief  and  conscience.  And 
the  Church  must  be  above  criticism  —  must  take  the 


THE  THRUST  69 

sterner  course.  But  for  those  of  us  who  don't  think 
it  wrong,  the  other  arguments  seem  so  —  so  local. 
I  suppose  drinking  does  keep  the  negroes  from  doing 
as  much  work  as  they  might,  but  it's  hard  on  the 
rest  of  us  to  have  to  cut  our  cloth  by  the  farmer's 
pattern!  We  here,  for  example,  at  this  table,  are 
to  go  without  our  sauterne  because  he  has  trouble 
in  getting  in  his  tobacco." 

"  Exactly,"  agreed  the  churchman.  "  The  great- 
est good  of  the  greatest  number.  And  isn't  that  true 
democracy,  after  all?  But  of  course  the  agricultural 
problem  is  the  least  of  it  —  there  are  the  figures 
of  poverty  and  crime.  The  two  are  twin-brothers, 
of  course.  And  drink  is  the  father  of  them  both. 
Will,  character,  determination  —  a  man  with  these 
may  overcome  the  habit.  But  these  are  just  the 
qualities  that  men  in  the  mass  lack.  When  a  weak 
man  falls  our  system  keeps  him  down.  I  once  heard 
Thomas  Malcolm  —  every  one  here  knows  of  him 
and  his  work,  I  presume  —  say  that  for  the  average 
drunkard  to  reform  with  a  saloon  on  every  corner 
is  about  as  easy  as  to  hoist  one's-self  out  of  hell 
by  one's  boot-straps.  I'm  inclined  to  think  he  is 
right.  And  I  never  saw  a  drunkard  yet  —  a  real 
Simon-pure  drunkard,  I  mean;  not  a  mere  sopho- 
moric  tippler  —  who  wouldn't  jump  at  the  chance 
to  reform  if  he  could.  But  he  has  no  more  chance 
of  winning  out  now  than  a  gambler  against  loaded 
dice."  He  paused,  with  a  little  gesture.  "  But 


70        THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

then,"  he  added,  "  the  modern  political  movement 
for  prohibition  has  made  every  one  familiar  with 
the  basic  arguments." 

Treadwell,  spruce  young  corporation  attorney  and 
cotillon  leader,  looked  up  interestedly  from  the  other 
end  of  the  table;  the  hostess's  fan  had  begun  to 
flutter  —  a  sign  of  agitation.  For  Cameron  Craig's 
affiliations  with  the  great  Trust  were  well-known, 
though  presumably  not  to  the  clergyman,  who  had 
met  him  for  the  first  time  that  evening.  Craig, 
however,  seemed  quite  unconscious  of  personal  im- 
plications. 

"  Do  you  seriously  think,  sir,"  he  asked,  with  the 
faintest  trace  of  irony,  "  that  the  statistics  of  crime 
would  be  materially  lowered  in  your  state  if  it  went 
*  dry  '  next  year?  " 

"  I  do,"  replied  the  rector  with  emphasis.  "  And 
not  only  lowered.  They  would  be  practically  wiped 
out.  There  wouldn't  be  enough  left  to  constitute 
an  item  in  the  appropriation  for  public  printing." 

"  Naturally,  however,"  Craig  observed,  "  as  the 
state  has  always  been  '  wet,'  exact  data  is  lacking 
to  assist  one's  speculations." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  the  other.  "  Every  jail 
furnishes  them.  I  think,"  he  went  on,  turning  now 
to  Treadwell,  "  that  it  is  the  experience  of  every 
criminal  lawyer  that  liquor,  in  some  phase  or  other, 
has  been  back  of  the  larger  proportion  of  cases  he 
is  called  on  to  defend." 

The  young  man  nodded.     "  I  never  had  any  ex- 


THE  THRUST  71 

perience  in  criminal  cases,"  he  said,  "  but  I  should 
think  you  were  not  far  wrong.  What  do  you  say, 
Brent?" 

"  I  agree  with  you,"  the  journalist  answered, 
"  but  my  view  of  course  is  a  superficial  one.  It  is  a 
pity  that  Harry  Sevier  isn't  here;  we  should  have 
got  a  valuable  opinion." 

"  You  may  be  gratified  then,"  said  the  hostess. 
"  Though  Mr.  Sevier  couldn't  come  to  dinner,  he 
will  be  here  for  the  dancing." 

The  senator  spoke.  "  Sevier !  I  heard  him  in 
court  yesterday." 

"  So  did  I,"  commented  Nancy,  aside.  "  I  gave 
up  an  auction-bridge  for  it,  and  I  wish  I  hadn't.  It 
wasn't  exciting  at  all." 

Mrs.  Spottiswoode  looked  relief  —  at  last  the 
talk  had  shifted  to  safe  ground.  "  He  lost  the  case, 
I  hear,"  she  said.  "  I  wonder  what  was  the  matter. 
Wasn't  he  in  good  form?" 

The  senator  looked  thoughtful.  "  In  one  way, 
yes,"  he  replied  judicially.  "  I  confess,  though,  I 
had  rather  expected  something  different,  but  just 
what  I  scarcely  know." 

Nancy  turned  her  small,  piquant  face.  "  7 
know.  We  all  expected  Mr.  Sevier  to  do  what 
he  has  done  so  often  —  but  didn't  to-day.  Oh," 
she  exclaimed  almost  angrily,  "  while  he  was  talking 
along,  like  a  machine,  I  could  have  shaken  him !  " 

"  That  would  have  furnished  the  sensation!  "  said 
Treadwell.  "  And  I  should  think  it  might  have 


72        THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

had  its  effect  on  the  jury,  too.  Juries  can  be  intimi- 
dated. I  wish  you  had  tried  it." 

She  made  a  little  face  at  him  across  the  nodding 
roses,  then  turned  more  earnestly  to  her  partner. 
"  I  don't  know  anything  about  court  matters  or  crim- 
inal trials,  but  from  where  I  sat  I  could  see  the 
man  he  was  defending.  He  looked  so  hopeless  and 
—  scared !  I  wanted  to  stand  up  and  scream  across 
the  room:  Can't  you  see?  Look  at  the  poor  thing 
there!  Make  the  jury  feel!  You  were  thinking 
the  same  thing  too,  Echo,  I  could  see  it  in  your 
face." 

Echo  lifted  her  eyes.  In  the  candle-light  her 
cheek  held  a  rising  flush.  She  looked  across  at  the 
rector.  "What  do  you  think,  Dr.  Custis?  "  she 
asked,  evenly. 

He  responded  promptly.  "  Perhaps  the  explana- 
tion isn't  so  far  afield.  I  presume  the  man  had 
confessed  to  him  and  Sevier  knew  he  was  guilty." 

Echo  was  conscious  of  a  wave  of  relief  at  an 
explanation  so  simple  and  credible.  It  had  never 
occurred  to  her  to  question  the  accuracy  of  other 
verdicts  Harry  had  won  in  the  past.  Each  had 
seemed  to  her  the  triumph  of  a  just  cause  over  a 
baleful  combination  of  circumstance,  the  brilliant 
freeing  of  truth  and  innocence  from  entangling  error 
and  maleficent  scheming.  But  if  this  man  was 
guilty  and  Harry  had  known  it  beyond  question, 
what  other  outcome  had  been  possible?  At  the 
moment  she  saw  in  that  even,  cold  presentation  of 


THE  THRUST  73 

the  court-room  only  the  conscientious  determination 
of  the  lawyer,  who,  as  the  law  prescribed,  stood  by 
his  client  to  demand  that  justice,  if  she  must  exact 
her  penalty,  prove  conclusively  every  jot  and  title 
of  her  ground. 

Craig's  eyes  had  been  regarding  her  steadily. 
With  the  spreading  of  that  flush  upon  her  cheeks  a 
covert,  laughing  allusion  that  had  come  to  his  ear 
on  the  court-house  steps  on  the  day  of  the  trial 
darted  to  his  mind.  A  cool,  keen  certainty  rushed 
through  him.  Sevier!  Fool  that  he  was  not  to 
have  thought  of  him  before !  This  young  flaneur 
—  and  drunkard !  —  this  petty  trifler  with  his  pro- 
fession !  Was  that  white  indignation  of  the  garden, 
this  vivid  flush,  for  him?  He  leaned  forward,  his 
heavy  voice,  intense  and  well  modulated,  addressed 
the  clergyman: 

"  An  interesting  hypothesis,  but  the  implication 
seems  hardly  safe.  A  lawyer's  responsibility  to  his 
client  is  a  very  grave  one.  He  owes  none  toward 
the  commonwealth  —  the  state's  attorney  takes  care 
of  that.  Any  less  conventional  view  should  appeal 
to  a  lawyer,  I  think,  as  dangerous  and  uncalled-for." 

"  What  do  you  fancy  was  responsible  for  Sevier's 
method  of  defence  in  this  case?  "  asked  the  rector. 

There  was  an  instant  of  blank  silence.  The  con- 
versation had  absorbed  the  lesser  talk  and  other 
voices  were  hushed.  Craig's  look  was  set  upon  the 
long  oval  damask  with  its  glistening  silver  and  bas- 
kets of  brilliant  fruit,  its  leaf  thin  glasses  with 


74        THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

languid  beads  rising  in  their  liquid  amber,  its  knots 
of  fern  and  bonbons.  His  big  fingers  were  twisting 
the  stem  of  a  goblet.  When  he  spoke  it  was  as 
though  he  had  not  heard  the  question. 

"  I  attended  a  trial  once,"  he  said,  "  at  a  frontier 
town  in  the  far  southwest,  a  border  community 
where  procedure  is  very  primitive.  The  man  was 
charged  with  murder.  He  was.  a  school-master,  I 
believe,  and  in  a  quarrel  with  some  local  bully  or 
other,  had  killed  him.  I  was  in  the  place  on  some 
land-business  and  went  to  the  trial  for  mere  amuse- 
ment. The  whole  neighbourhood  was  there.  Both 
men,  it  appeared,  had  been  in  their  cups,  and  self- 
defence  seemed  an  adequate  plea.  Acquittal  was 
regarded  as  fairly  certain  —  the  more  so  as  the  Dis- 
trict Attorney  was  the  bosom-friend  of  the  accused 
man,  and  everybody  knew  it.  There  was  almost  no 
attempt  at  evidence,  which  didn't  seem  surprising 
under  the  circumstances,  and  the  state  made  the  bald- 
est farce  of  its  cross-examination.  The  real  interest 
came  after  a  rather  long  recess  that  preceded  the 
final  speeches.  The  prisoner's  counsel  was  a  young 
man  with  a  rough,  direct  address  that  caught  the 
people.  He  had  them  pretty  well  with  him,  too, 
and  when  he  sat  down  there  seemed  very  little  rea- 
son why  the  jury  should  even  leave  the  box.  The 
speech  had  been  a  fairly  long  one  and  as  it  had 
grown  dark,  candles  had  been  brought  in  and  set 
about  —  two  on  the  judge's  desk  and  some  on  the 
tables." 


THE  THRUST  75 

Echo  repressed  a  start.  It  had  come  to  her  sud- 
denly that  there  was  a  significance  in  what  he  was 
saying  —  a  suggestion  that  a  quick  clairvoyant  sense 
told  her  was  principally  for  her.  In  the  few  words 
he  had,  with  apparent  unintention,  sketched  the 
actual  scene  in  the  court-room  of  the  day  before,  and 
while  reversing  its  elements,  was  picturing,  in  unfa- 
miliar guise,  its  identical  situation.  She  felt  her 
face  slowly  harden,  and  turned  her  profile  toward 
him,  her  hand  playing  with  a  spray  of  fern  beside 
her  plate. 

"  During  the  whole  speech  the  District  Attorney 
had  sat  in  his  chair,  with  his  chin  in  his  collar  and 
his  ey~s  closed,  never  moving.  When  his  turn  came 
he  die  I't  rise ;  in  fact,  it  was  clear  that  he  had  been 
asleep.  A  laugh  went  round  and  the  sheriff  put  a 
hand  on  his  shoulder  and  shook  him.  He  got  up, 
looking  confused,  and  while  he  blinked  at  the  can- 
dles, some  one  in  the  audience  called  out,  '  Never 
mind,  old  man.  If  you  can't  make  a  speech,  recite 
a  poem.'  It  was  curious,  but  the  remark  seemed  to 
give  him  a  clue,  and  he  began  to  recite  Hood's  Eu- 
gene Aram." 

Craig  paused  a  moment  and  sipped  from  his  wine- 
glass. All  at  the  table  were  leaning  forward  in- 
tently. Treadwell  was  frowning  at  his  plate.  No 
one  spoke ;  only  a  fork,  dropped  from  Nancy  Lang- 
ham's  fingers,  rattled  against  the  cloth. 

"  It  was  a  strange  sight,"  went  on  Craig,  "  and 
one  I  have  always  remembered.  You  must  picture 


76        THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

the  crowded  court-room,  the  gloom,  the  flaring  can- 
dles, and  the  whole  uncanny  episode,  to  realise  the 
effect  that  was  produced.  The  man  was  by  nature 
a  marvellous  actor  —  he  would  have  made  his  for- 
tune on  any  stage.  At  first  it  seemed  as  if  he  didn't 
know  quite  where  he  was,  but  then  the  ballad  itself 
gripped  him  and  he  rendered  it,  acting  each  line,  as 
I  never  heard  it  before  or  since.  I  had  never  re- 
alised what  was  in  that  poem.  Very  few  there,  I 
suppose,  had  ever  heard  it  in  their  lives,  and  they 
listened  in  a  fascinated  silence  while  he  rolled  it  out 
to  the  last  line. 

"  '  Two  hard-faced  men  set  out  from  Lynn, 

Through  the  rain  and  heavy  mist, 
And  Eugene  Aram  walked  between 
With  gyves  upon  his  wrist.'  " 

He  paused  again.  "  Oh,  finish !  "  gasped  Nancy 
Langham.  "  I  don't  like  that  story.  What  then?" 

"  When  he  ended  he  walked  out  of  the  court-room 
without  waiting  for  the  verdict." 

Echo's  head  turned  toward  him.  "  They  found 
him  guilty!  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Spottiswode. 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you  say  the  District  Attorney  was  his  best 
friend?  "  asked  the  artist. 

"  So  I  was  told." 

"  And  yet  wanted  to  convict  him?  " 

Craig  shook  his  head.     "  No,  I  didn't  say  that." 

"  Then  what,"  inquired  the  rector,  "  do  you  take 
it,  inspired  him  to  such  an  extraordinary  action?  " 


THE  THRUST  77 

"  Oh,"  said  Craig,  and  as  he  spoke,  for  the  first 
time  he  looked  full  at  Echo.  "  It  all  came  out  after- 
ward. He  didn't  realise  what  he  was  doing.  He 
was  drunk." 

For  an  instant  Echo's  breath  stopped.  In  the  un- 
expected denouement  she  had  guessed,  as  at  a  light- 
ning-flash, Craig's  real  purpose.  Sharply,  baldly  in- 
troduced, the  tale  stood  forth  intrusive  and  mali- 
cious, an  implied  slur  upon  a  man  who  was  not  pres- 
ent to  refute  it.  Her  whole  being  flooded  with 
fierce  resentment,  mingled  with  an  angry  amaze  that 
of  all  there  no  one  else  seemed  to  have  caught  the 
insinuation.  To  the  rest  it  had  been  at  most  a 
gaucherie,  a  parallel  which,  if  perhaps  not  felicitous, 
had  been  without  significance  and  would  be  readily 
forgotten.  Therein  lay  the  added  sting,  that  Craig 
had  so  accurately  judged  the  outcome.  He  had 
guessed  how  it  stood  with  her  and  Harry  Sevier,  and 
counting  on  her  keener  sensitiveness  where  the  lat- 
ter was  concerned,  had  barbed  his  shaft  for  her 
alone ! 

The  next  instant,  however,  the  tension  broke  with 
every  one  talking  at  once.  From  this  babble  the  sen- 
ator emerged  with  a  negro  story  about  a  trial  with 
"  exterminatin'  circumstances,"  which  brought  a  rip- 
ple of  laughter,  and  presently  the  hostess  gave  the 
rising  signal. 

The  room  opened  upon  the  ball-room  from  whose 
further  end  already  came  the  squeak  of  tuned  catgut, 


78        THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

and  beyond  this  spread  the  invitingly  cool  verandas, 
now  beginning  to  fill  with  filmy  gowns  that  showed 
pallidly  against  the  evening  dusk,  where  the  bouquet 
of  masculine  segars  mingled  with  the  dewed  scent  of 
shrubbery.  Here  in  the  increasing  numbers,  unob- 
served as  she  thought,  Echo  stepped  down  onto  the 
cool  dark  turf  and  following  one  of  the  little  mean- 
dering bush-bordered  paths,  came  to  a  rustic  bench 
over  which  a  paper  lantern  threw  flickering  rose- 
coloured  shadows.  On  this  she  sat  down,  struggling 
to  regain  her  lost  composure  and  grateful  for  the 
sense  of  quiet  and  the  cool  inspiration  of  the  water, 
over  whose  margin  the  moonbeams  danced  in  elfish 
ecstasy. 

In  another  moment,  however,  the  silence  was 
broken.  A  step  sounded  on  the  path,  and  she  looked 
up  to  see  Craig  standing  before  her. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  TURN  OF  THE  LONG  LANE 

ECHO  came  to  her  feet,  all  her  blood  on  fire. 
In  her  resentment  it  had  seemed  to  her 
that  by  very  silence  she  had  made  herself 
party  to  that  slur  upon  the  man  she  loved,  and  she 
had  been  aching  fiercely  to  repel  it. 

Craig  tossed  his  segar  away.  He  made  no  apol- 
ogies for  having  followed  her  from  the  piazza. 
"  May  I  sit  here  and  talk  to  you?  "  he  asked. 

She  remained  standing.  "  Mr.  Craig,"  she  said 
with  quiet  emphasis,  "  I  am  glad  you  have  come  to 
me  here.  I  have  something  to  ask  you  which  I 
could  not  have  asked  you  —  there." 

He  bowed  and  stood  waiting. 

"  I  fancied,"  she  went  on,  "  in  certain  of  your 
remarks  at  the  table  a  lurking  innuendo.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  reply  to  such  a  thing.  You  would  make  it 
possible  if  you  would  put  it  in  a  more  direct  form." 

"  Your  own  observation  does  not  appear  to  err  in 
directness,"  he  answered,  after  a  pause.  "  I  am 
afraid  I  must  ask  you  to  descend  to  plain  English." 

"  In  the  course  of  the  dinner  you  told  a  story." 

"  Henceforth  I  shall  congratulate  myself  on  my 
skill  as  a  raconteur.''  His  tone  was  mildly  ironic. 
79 


80        THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

"  It  seemed  to  me  —  and  I  think  I  am  of  average 
intelligence  and  not  more  fanciful  than  most  — 
that  by  that  story  you  intended  to  convey,  an  insinu- 
ation against  the  reputation  of  a  gentleman  whom  I 
do  not  care  to  hear  maligned." 

He  looked  at  her  with  smouldering  eyes.  He 
was  feeling  admiration  for  her  quick,  hot  southern 
blood  and  resentful  spirit.  It  was  part  of  that 
splendid  type  of  womanhood  that  he  had  deter- 
mined to  make  his  own.  And  that  it  was  now  dis- 
played in  defence  of  the  man  whose  weakness  he 
despised  and  whose  personality  he  hated  filled  him 
with  a  dull,  glooming  fury.  His  lips  twisted. 
"  Maligned?  "  he  repeated,  in  an  accent  that  was  a 
question. 

"  That  was  my  word,"  she  said  steadily. 

"  You  appear  to  attach  an  extraordinary  import- 
ance to  my  tale,"  he  retorted,  with  grim  sarcasm. 

"  Do  you  deny  that  there  was  innuendo?  " 

He  smiled.  "  I  can  endure  even  that  suspicion, 
since  it  is  such  a  compliment  to  my  own  subtlety. 
May  I  ask,  in  my  turn,  in  whose  interest  you  so  val- 
orously  take  up  the  cudgels?  " 

"  Your  story  directly  followed  a  reference  to  Mr. 
Henry  Sevier's  handling  of  a  case  in  court  here. 
The  unexpected  outcome  of  the  trial  in  your  tale  was 
due  to  the  fact  that  its  chief  character,  though  no 
one  realised  it,  was  under  the  influence  of  liquor. 
The  implication  seemed  obvious  =—  that  Mr.  Sevier 
was  not  himself  when  he  conducted  his  defence." 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  LONG  LANE     81 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  You  are  the  only 
one  who  has  drawn  such  a  conclusion?  " 

Her  pale  face  blazed.  "Oh,  I  understand  1 
You  intended  the  inference  for  me  alone !  " 

"  Well?  "  he  asked,  with  aggravating  calmness. 

"  Did  you  insinuate  that,  or  did  you  not?  "  Her 
pent-up  anger  was  tearing  now  at  her  self-control. 

He  laughed,  a  short,  jarring  laugh.  He  felt  an 
insane  desire  to  seize  that  slender,  unyielding  body 
in  his  great  arms,  to  rain  kisses  on  that  vivid,  scorn- 
ful mouth  with  its  short  upper  lip,  and  bend  or  break 
her  like  a  sapling  to  his  savage  will.  "  Suppose  I 
did,"  he  said  stonily.  "  What  then?  " 

"That  was  a  contemptible  act!"  The  young 
voice  cut  like  a  whip-lash  and  involuntarily  Craig's 
big  fists  clenched.  "  And  if  I  were  Mr.  Sevier,  I 
would  horsewhip  you !  " 

A  sound  from  behind  them  fell  across  the  sur- 
charged quiet.  Both  turned  astonished  faces  — 
Echo's  quivering  with  feeling,  Craig's  set  and  stormy 

—  upon  the  man  whose  name  had  just  been  spoken. 
Neither  had  heard  his  step  as  he  came  quickly  along 
the  grassy  path,  nor  had  Sevier  guessed  the  situation 
till  those  pregnant  sentences  sent  the  blood  from  his 
heart.     He  had  thought  the  secret  of  his  failure  un- 
suspected.    The  realisation  now  that  one,  at  least, 
had  guessed  the  truth  had  been  instantly  swallowed 
up  in  the  bitter  knowledge  that  it  had  fallen  to  her 

—  the  one  woman  in  the  world  —  to  defend  him, 
who  was  undeserving! 


82        THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

Craig  regarded  him  with  a  veiled  smile  that  was 
half  a  sneer.  The  apparition  had  come  at  a  fateful 
moment.  Then  his  glance  passed  to  Echo.  "  May 
I  ask,"  he  said,  "  whether  you  have  yet  cross-ex- 
amined Mr.  Sevier?" 

He  bowed  and  went  quickly  up  the  path  toward 
the  lighted  piazzas. 

There  ensued  a  silence  in  which  two  minds 
travelled  far.  Echo  had  sat  down  upon  the  bench, 
her  face  averted.  Her  anger  had  faded  out  and  her 
heart  was  hammering  at  the  thought  that  Harry  had 
heard,  in  her  defence  of  him,  what  was  in  truth  a 
confession.  Across  the  aching  interval  broke  the 
wanton  bubble  of  a  whip-poor-will. 

"  Echo  — "  he  said  in  a  muffled  voice. 

She  looked  up  at  him  in  the  feathery  light.  "  You 
heard  —  I  wish  you  hadn't.  Yet  I  couldn't  help  it ! 
That  ridiculous  slur!  But  you  can't  possibly  im- 
agine that  —  that  any  one  who  knows  you  — " 

He  stopped  her  with  an  abrupt  gesture.  "  Wait. 
I  want  to  —  I  must  tell  you  something." 

"  No,  no!  "  she  protested.  "  You  shall  not!  I 
need  no  assurance.  Do  you  think  that  I  — " 

He  shook  his  head.  But  for  that  last  sneering 
look  of  Craig's,  that  satiric  challenge,  he  might  have 
maintained  a  silence  that  would  have  seemed  to  her 
only  a  proper  pride  in  himself  and  a  deserved  con- 
tempt for  the  whisper  of  malice.  But  the  look  and 
sneer  had  flicked  him  on  the  raw,  had  called  to  some 
element  of  naked  honesty  deep  within  him.  In  that 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  LONG  LANE  83 

second  he  had  known,  shame-stricken,  that  whatever 
the  outcome  there  could  be  no  evasion  between  them. 
There  must  be  the  truth.  He  was  no  longer  what 
he  had  thought  himself,  but  he  would  be  no  ma- 
lingerer. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  "for  that!  Yet  what 
Craig  wished  you  to  believe  —  was  quite  true." 

She  stared  at  him  unbelievingly.  "  True ! " 
Her  lips  formed  rather  than  spoke  the  word. 

"  Yes.  I  was  under  the  influence  of  liquor.  But 
for  that  I  should  have  won  the  case,  I  believe." 

"  But,"  she  faltered,  "  I  don't  —  understand. 
Why,  I  never  saw  you  in  —  that  condition  in  my 
life !  I  was  there.  I  —  I  heard  you  speak." 

"  It  is  not  the  first  time,"  he  said  steadily.  "  Nor 
the  second,  nor  the  third.  Liquor  helped  me  to 
win  my  cases.  I  thought  I  had  made  it  my  slave 
when  it  had  made  itself  my  master.  This  time  it 
failed  me.  And  I  —  I  failed  my  client,"  he  added 
bitterly. 

She  did  not  catch  the  note  of  pain,  of  deep  con- 
trition in  his  voice.  Her  own  hurt  was  too  keen. 
She  only  heard  the  high-built  structures  of  her  own 
ideals  crumbling  down  about  her  feet.  "  So  Craig 
was  right!  "  she  said  under  her  breath. 

"  Don't  think  it  is  easy  for  me  to  tell  you  this," 
he  went  on.  "  It  is  because  I  must.  All  my  life  I 
have  cared  very  little  what  others  thought.  But  — 
you  —  I  care  what  you  think.  I  never  knew  how 
much  till  now,  when  I  have  thrown  your  good 


84       THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

opinion  of  me  in  the  dust!  "  He  bent  and  took  her 
hands.  "  Echo,  is  it  the  death  of  your  ideal  of 
me?" 

Her  fingers  trembled  in  his  grasp.  Pictures  were 
flashing  before  her  mind  —  frost-stung  October 
days  when  they  had  galloped  with  the  baying 
hounds,  over  the  blown,  tinted  leaves  and  russet 
fields  —  winter  skating-parties  on  the  frozen  river, 
summer  dances  like  that  of  to-night,  for  which  the 
music  was  now  swinging  a  hundred  yards  away  — 
always  it  had  been  she  and  Harry  Sevier.  He  had 
been  so  superior  to  the  blandishments  of  the  smaller 
vices.  Others  had  failed  and  fallen;  only  he  had 
remained  on  his  pedestal,  a  type  of  brilliant  accom- 
plishment. She  saw  now  his  success  as  unenduring, 
fictitious,  his  talents  besmirched  with  the  vice  that 
was  most  hateful  to  her.  "  Not  the  first  time,  nor 
the  second,  nor  the  third !  "  In  their  own  circle  she 
had  seen  the  dreadful  cycle  more  than  once  repeated 
'. —  the  slow,  baleful  fastening  of  habit,  the  struggle, 
the  piteous,  ignoble  yielding  and  the  final  slipping 
down  to  degraded  depths  from  which  there  could 
be  no  resurrection.  There  was  Chilly,  her  own 
twin-brother,  with  his  feet  set  on  the  same  primrose 
path.  And  now  was  it  to  be  Harry  Sevier?  She 
shuddered  and  drew  her  hand  from  his  clasp. 

"I  —  see,"  he  said,  in  a  slow,  even  voice.  "  You 
can't  trust  me."  It  was  not  the  Sevier  that  had 
kissed  her  hand  who  spoke  now,  but  one  whom  that 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  LONG  LANE  85 

gesture  seemed  to  have  flung  an  infinite  distance 
from  her. 

"  Can  you  trust  yourself?  "  she  asked. 

Harry's  tongue  touched  his  lips  —  as  it  had  done 
in  his  inner  office  on  the  day  of  the  trial,  when  he 
stood  looking  at  her  picture  on  his  desk.  Since  that 
day  he  had  known  no  breath  of  the  periodic  craving. 
But  now,  curiously,  he  felt  his  mouth  growing  all  at 
once  arid  and  dry  with  the  old  slinking  thirst. 
Could  he  trust  himself?  The  question  seemed  to 
thrust  itself  at  him  with  a  malevolent  significance. 
How  much  of  his  will  had  he  indeed,  surrendered? 
Did  he  know? 

There  rose  up  suddenly  in  him  a  savage  resolu- 
tion. Not  another  drop  upon  his  lips  —  never, 
never !  Not  for  the  sake  of  success,  not  for  his  very 
life,  never  so  long  as  he  lived ! 

He  took  her  hands  in  both  his  own,  leaned  down 
and  kissed  them.  Then,  without  a  word  he  went 
rapidly  from  her. 


CHAPTER  X 

AFTER  A   YEAR 

LAWRENCE  TREADWELL,  the  attorney, 
sat    in    his    office    negligently    smoking    a 
segar  and  staring  down  through  the  open 
window  upon  the  busy  thoroughfare  beneath.     Out- 
side was  the  spring  sunshine  and  the  smell  of  grow- 
ing trees.     Just  across  from  the  building  stood  the 
city's  new  Opera  House,  over  whose  ambitious  en- 
trance was  still  stretched  a  canvas  sign  advertising 
a  mass-meeting  held  the  evening  before  under  the 
auspices  of  the  Civic  Club. 

He  read  the  lettering  reflectively  as  he  blew  out 
clouds  of  the  fragrant,  opalescent  incense:  "Pro- 
test Against  Machine-Rule."  He  smiled.  The  old 
revolt  of  the  Quixotic  handful  against  the  en- 
trenched forces  that  had  governed  the  city  for  a  gen- 
eration —  one  more  of  the  popular  ebullitions  which 
punctuate  modern  progress,  the  familiar  periodic 
dust-storms  from  whose  turmoil  the  Old  Guard 
emerged,  moveless  as  ever  in  the  saddle,  to  a  new 
campaign  dictated  by  the  mighty  Over-Lord,  the 
great  Public  Services  Corporation  which,  through 
its  multiple  ramifications,  assumed  to  control  the 
state's  franchises,  to  dictate  its  significant  legislation 
—  even  to  influence  its  judiciary.  As  he  read  the 
86 


AFTER  A  YEAR  87 

words  on  the  canvas  bellying  in  the  breeze,  his  smile 
was  cynical. 

Yet  the  smile  had  a  touch  of  wistfulness  too. 
The  movement  had  grown  out  of  the  general  unrest, 
the  keener  public  conscience,  that  had  accompanied 
the  political  renaissance  that  in  the  past  year  had 
been  sweeping  over  a  dozen  commonwealths.  In 
the  old  southern  city,  wherein  principles  were  not 
yet  become  mere  hypocrisies  and  folk  still  preserved 
old-fashioned  political  ideals,  it  had  attained  to  the 
prestige  of  well-known  names  and  engaging  person- 
alities. Their  forefathers  had  been  men  to  whom 
honour  and  cleanliness  in  public  life  had  meant  all 
things  and  who  had  governed  as  naturally  as  they 
had  breathed.  And  there  were  many  among  these 
to  whom  the  new  era,  with  its  open  sneer  at  public 
trust  and  its  subservience  to  great  aggregations  of 
wealth  selfishly  employed,  had  become  an  increasing 
reproach.  The  man  who  gazed  down  from  the 
office  window  had  long  ago  made  his  choice.  He 
had  no  illusions.  He  knew  to  what  allegiance  he 
owed  his  present  position.  It  had  been  the  reward 
of  long  and  faithful  service!  Yet  sometimes  still 
the  bonds  chafed  —  sometimes  still  the  new  spirit 
that  was  stirring  abroad  struck  through  his  in- 
grained habit,  calling  to  him  to  do  the  impossibly 
fanatical  thing ! 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door  and  a  man  en- 
tered. It  was  Cameron  Craig.  He  responded 
briefly  to  the  lawyer's  greeting  and  coming  to  the 


88        THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

window,  stood  a  moment  beside  him,  looking  down 
at  the  hurrying  wheeled  traffic,  the  loitering  pave- 
ment pedestrians  —  and  the  flapping  canvas  sign. 
He  laughed  a  little,  but  without  mirth. 

"  You  were  there,  I  suppose,"  he  said. 

Treadwell  nodded.  "  Yes.  It's  tilting  at  the 
windmills,  of  course." 

"  They  began  too  late,"  said  Craig  grimly. 
"  The  ticket  is  safe  enough  this  year.  But  next  year 
—  the  Gubernatorial  campaign  —  if  they  only  had 
fire  enough  to  keep  the  blaze  going  till  then,  they 
might  give  us  trouble." 

The  other  did  not  answer.  His  eyes  had  rested 
briefly  on  Craig's  face,  then  again  had  sought  the 
window.  He  was  thinking  that  his  visitor  had  not 
changed  for  the  better  during  the  past  two  months. 
The  fact,  indeed,  would  have  been  apparent  to  a 
casual  eye.  The  virulent  force  and  will  were  no 
less  noticeable,  but  there  was  now  a  kind  of  glaze 
over  his  face  —  a  certain  fierce  and  sullen  quality 
that  seemed  a  reflection  of  inner  bitterness. 

The  judicial  eye  clove  to  the  fact.  Since  that 
far-away  night  at  the  "  Farm,"  Craig's  passion  had 
never  loosened  its  grip.  It  was  characteristic  of 
the  man  that  he  had  on  that  occasion  played  the 
only  card  in  his  hand,  not  blindly,  but  by  instinct  and 
without  hesitation.  But  while  he  had  apparently 
gained  his  point,  it  had  been  borne  to  him  gradually 
that  his  very  method  of  play  had  lost  him  infinitely 
more  than  he  had  gained.  In  the  mind  of  the 


AFTER  A  YEAR  89 

woman  he  desired  he  had  transgressed  the  rules  of 
the  game,  and  the  realisation  maddened  him. 
Never  since  then  had  he  heard  her  name  coupled 
with  Harry  Sevier's.  Never  had  he  seen  them  to- 
gether. This  had  given  him  satisfaction.  But  if 
he  had  shattered  her  regard  for  the  man  whom  he 
now  hated  more  tenaciously  than  he  had  ever  hated 
anything  in  his  whole  life,  the  fact  had  seemed  to 
hold  no  advantage  for  himself.  On  several  visits 
to  the  city,  he  had  invented  reasons  to  call  at  the 
Allen  house,  but  he  had  soon  learned  that  he  was 
not  to  meet  Echo  there.  He  had,  however,  seen  her 
elsewhere  more  than  once  —  when  her  gaze  had 
gone  by  him  as  if  he  had  been  empty  air.  Though 
his  veins  burned  with  the  fever  of  the  famished,  he 
had  not  ventured  to  challenge  that  cold  aloofness. 
But  it  had  rankled  and  stung  him  almost  beyond  en- 
durance, till  he  had  come  to  thirst  avidly  for  some 
kind  of  test  between  them  —  for  action,  whatever 
the  result  might  mean.  And  the  fierce  desire  that 
raged  within  him,  feeding  on  itself,  had  left  its  sin- 
ister traces  on  his  face. 

Abruptly  Craig  withdrew  his  gaze.  "  I  see 
young  Sevier  held  forth  last  night.  The  last  time  I 
heard  him  was  in  court,  just  a  year  ago.  The 
young  fop !  He'd  do  better  to  stick  to  his  law- 
books  —  though  I  hear  he  has  no  cases  anymore." 

"  It's  his  own  choice,"  the  attorney  answered 
coldly.  He  liked  Harry  Sevier  and  he  resented  the 
other's  tone,  no  less  than  the  words.  "  He  could 


90       THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

have  a  new  client  every  day  if  he  wanted.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  he  hasn't  taken  a  case  since  the  one 
you  speak  of.  He  fought  for  six  months  trying  to 
get  through  an  appeal  on  that.  It  was  the  first  crim- 
inal case  he  had  ever  lost  and  it  cut  him  up  some,  I 
fancy.  Of  course  it's  ridiculous  to  take  it  so  to 
heart,  but  I  swear  I  can't  help  liking  him  for  it! 
He's  not  merely  a  fop,  either.  In  my  opinion  he 
comes  mighty  near  being  just  what  that  crowd  at  the 
Civic  Club  have  been  looking  for." 

Craig's  eyes  had  not  left  Treadwell's.  "  In  what 
way?  "  he  asked. 

"  As  a  spokesman.  They  know  what  they  believe 
and  what  they  want  to  fight  for.  But  they've  been 
inarticulate.  Most  of  them  are  blue-blooded  old  fo- 
gies, with  their  souls  full  of  fine  ideals,  but  with  no 
leader.  In  him  (and  in  that  speech  of  his  last  night 
he  threw  in  his  lot  with  them  absolutely)  they  have 
a  finely  trained  legal  mind  —  for  with  all  his  old 
fire-works  Sevier  always  had  that  —  and  a  natural 
orator  besides.  You  should  have  heard  him  last 
night!  For  two  hours  he  held  that  great  audience 
in  a  perfect  spell.  *  The  finest  exhibition  of  south- 
ern oratory  since  the  war  '  the  papers  called  it  this 
morning,  and  I  tell  you,  Craig,  they  weren't  far 
wrong  1  " 

He  stopped,  somewhat  embarrassed  by  his  own 
enthusiasm,  and  wondering  at  the  dark  look  on  the 
other's  face.  Perhaps  to  hide  this,  Craig  turned 
away.  His  fingers  were  twitching  and  for  an  in- 


AFTER  A  YEAR  91 

stant  he  was  not  wholly  master  of  himself.  When 
he  spoke,  however,  he  had  regained  his  governance. 

"  After  all,  it  wasn't  the  future  of  this  anti-ma- 
chine campaign  that  I  came  to  talk  about.  There's 
something  nearer  home  that  is  worrying  me." 

"What's  the  trouble?" 

"  The  Welles-Scott  case  decision.  It  is  to  be 
handed  down  on  the  first  of  May.  It  must  be  in  our 
favour." 

The  other  looked  surprised.  "  But  surely  it  will 
be." 

"  It's  not  on  the  cards.  I  thought  I  knew  the 
Judge,  but  there  are  signs  that  I'm  afraid  of." 

The  attorney  sniffed  incredulously.  "  Judge  Al- 
len! "  he  exclaimed.  "Why,  the  trust  made  him. 
And  it  keeps  him  made,  I  should  think,  too." 

Craig  shook  his  head.  "  He's  been  talking  lately. 
We've  had  warnings  from  some  who  are  very  close 
to  him.  This  decision  must  be  what  we  want  it  to 
be.  Voters  are  thinking  more  than  they  used  to. 
If  these  Civic  Club  people  keep  up  the  agitation  — 
particularly  if  they  link  on  to  the  prohibition  move- 
ment, as  they  are  likely  to  do  —  the  distillery  may 
become  a  live  issue  in  the  next  state  campaign. 
That's  the  great  danger.  And  this  Welles-Scott 
case  strikes  at  the  heart  of  the  matter.  If  the  Trust 
loses  this  decision  it  will  be  the  signal  for  a  crop  of 
bills  in  the  next  legislature  that  will  cost  us  a  cool 
million  to  fight.  And  they  may  lead  anywhere.  I 
tell  you  we  have  to  have  it !  " 


92        THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

The  other  mused  a  moment.  "  The  Judge,  of 
course,  can't  be  reached  in  —  in  ordinary  ways." 

"  Of  course  not.  He's  not  venal.  We've  been 
able  to  depend  on  him  so  long  because  he  has  grown 
up  with  the  Trust  —  he  was  its  counsel  for  many 
years  —  and  its  interests  were  his.  He  thought 
with  it  His  mind  ran  in  the  same  groove.  But 
Beverly  Allen,  the  Trust's  counsel,  and  Judge  Allen 
of  the  Supreme  Court  are  different  propositions.  I 
always  thought  this  test  case  was  a  mistake  I  But 
I  was  overruled.  Well,  we've  got  to  have  the  deci- 
sion. If  one  way  won't  bring  it  about,  another  shall. 
Something  will  have  to  —  persuade  him.  He  must 
have  a  weak  spot.  We  must  find  it,  that's  all." 

"  His  life's  been  an  open  book,  if  that's  what  you 
mean,"  said  the  attorney,  slowly. 

"  Few  men's  life  are  open  books,"  returned  Craig, 
with  cynical  shortness.  "  There's  apt  to  be  a  page 
pasted  down  somewhere.  That  part  of  it  is  your 
business.  If  there's  any  such  page  in  his  case,  you  find 
it !  I  don't  care  how  small  a  page  it  is,  or  how  long 
ago  it  was  pasted  down.  If  it's  there  I  want  it !  " 

"  His  record  was  combed  with  a  fine-tooth  comb 
when  he  went  on  the  bench,"  said  Treadwell.  "  The 
Trust  wanted  a  man  that  the  opposition  couldn't  get 
anything  on.  That  was  before  your  time,  of  course. 
I  went  over  the  report  myself.  There  wasn't  any- 
thing there  —  nothing  but  the  vaguest  suspicion  of 
an  old  love  affair  that  was  polished  off  twenty  years 
ago." 


AFTER  A  YEAR  93 

Craig  turned  sharply.  "  A  love  affair !  After 
his  marriage?  " 

"  Why  yes,  I  think  so.  But  there  weren't  any 
details.  And  the  woman  died  abroad  long  ago." 

"  What  was  her  name?  " 

Treadwell  looked  at  him  curiously.  A  faint  flush 
had  crept  over  his  face.  "  See  here,  Craig,"  he  said, 
"  after  all,  there's  a  limit  to  decency.  At  the  most 
it  was  nothing  but  a  passing  infatuation  —  an  inno- 
cent one.  There  was  not  the  faintest  breath  of 
scandal.  And  as  I  told  you,  the  woman  is  dead." 

Craig's  eyes  were  boring  into  him.  "  Treadwell," 
he  said  in  a  hard  voice,  "  you  don't  seem  to  under- 
stand. This  is  a  big  game,  and  there  is  no  limit! 
None!  And  I  intend  to  win  it!  What  was  her 
name?  " 

The  other  leaned  to  knock  the  ash  from  his  segar. 
There  was  a  tense  pause  before  he  replied.  "  I  have 
forgotten." 

"  Where  are  the  old  reports?  " 

*'  They  were  destroyed." 

Craig  looked  at  him  an  instant,  his  eyes  like  spark- 
ling points  of  steel.  He  opened  his  lips  to  speak, 
but  he  did  not.  Instead,  with  a  shrug  of  incredulous 
contempt,  he  caught  up  his  hat,  turned  to  the  door, 
opened  it  and  went  out. 

Treadwell  listened  to  the  heavy  footsteps  descend- 
ing the  stair.  Then  he  went  and  shut  the  door. 

"  The  hound!  "  he  said  under  his  breath. 


CHAPTER  XI 

CRAIG   FINDS    HIS   WEAPON 

FROM  his  chair  in  the  library  at  Midfields  that 
night,  just  beyond  the  circle  of  radiance  cast 
by   the   big   reading-lamp,    Cameron    Craig 
looked  steadily  at  the  Judge  from  under  his  bushy 
eyebrows,  as  the  latter  said: 

"  Yes,  it  is  true  that  I  was  for  years  affiliated  with 
the  interests  you  represent.  I  was  their  attorney. 
The  connection  ceased  when  I,  myself,  severed  it, 
eleven  years  ago." 

Craig's  lips,  that  had  been  set  in  a  hard  line,  parted 
in  a  satiric  smile.  He  was  leading  doggedly  up  to 
what  he  purposed  to  say.  "  To  its  profound  loss," 
he  said  from  the  shadow.  "  You  had  cogent  rea- 
sons, no  doubt." 

The  other  mused  a  moment,  his  pallid,  scholarly 
face  averted.  "  I'll  tell  you,  if  you  like,"  he 'said  at 
length.  "  But  you  will  understand  that  I  challenge 
no  one  else's  convictions.  I  assume  to  sit  in  judg- 
ment only  upon  my  own." 

Craig  nodded.     "  Of  course." 

"  I  made  the  connection  we  are  speaking  of,"  con- 
tinued the  Judge,  "  when  I  was  a  young  man,  just 
beginning  practice.  The  liquor  problem  was  young- 
then  too.  Communities  did  not  take  it  too  seriously 

94 


CRAIG  FINDS  HIS  WEAPON          95 

—  particularly  in  the  south  where  drinking  was  a 
matter  of  course  with  gentlemen.     The  white-ribbon 
movement  was  in  its  infancy  and  John  B.  Gough  had 
hardly  been  heard  of.     To  me  —  to  the  men  I  knew 

—  the  '  temperance  '  agitation  seemed  a  mere  recur- 
ring fad,  fostered  by  pious  and  well-meaning  persons, 
which  cropped  up  —  a   kind   of  moral  seven-year 
locust  —  at  periodic  intervals.     People  lived  more 
or  less  as  their  grandfathers  had  lived  before  them 
on  their  plantations.     And  their  fathers  had  been 
fox-hunting,    hard-living    *  three-bottle    men '    right 
down  to  the  war.     I  had  all  the  habits  and  preju- 
dices of  my  class.     Liquor  seemed  to  me  like  many 
another  thing  that  was  made  to  minister  to  indi- 
vidual weakness,  but  was  not  in  itself  obnoxious. 
And  the  decanter  was  never  empty  on  my  side-board. 
Yet  even  then  the  new  element  in  politics  and  in 
every-day  life  —  the  sentiment  against  liquor  —  was 
growing.     Times  were  slowly  changing,  men's  out- 
look was  changing,   and  I  knew  —  long  before  I 
admitted  it  to  myself  —  that  I  was  a  part  of  an 
industry  which  the  best  thought  of  the  community 
no  longer  approved,  and  that  men  who  championed 
it  were  swimming  against  a  deepening  and  strength- 
ening social  current.     I  was  stubborn,  but  at  last 
there  came  a  day  when  I  —  changed  too." 

His  voice  had  softened,  had  suddenly  become  sur- 
charged with  feeling.  He  leaned  over  the  table 
and  caught  up  a  small  oval  photograph,  set  in  a 
black-leathern  frame.  It  was  a  picture  of  his  son 


96       THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

Chisholm,  as  a  boy  of  perhaps  fourteen.  He  held 
it  out  in  a  hand  that  slightly  trembled: 

"  That  is  why  I  changed,  Craig.  One  night 
Chilly  came  home  —  drunk.  I  had  never  seen  him 
intoxicated,  had  never  guessed  that  he  could  so  far 
forget  himself.  He  was  a  mere  boy,  at  school ! 
In  that  moment  the  sharp  truth  came  to  me. 
Shame  stared  at  me  from  my  own  door-step.  I 
saw  the  text  of  the  sermon  that  had  been  preached 
into  my  deaf  ears  —  in  my  own  son !  " 

He  broke  off  abruptly  and  set  the  picture  back 
on  the  table.  When  he  spoke  again  his  voice  was 
more  even: 

"  That  hour,  as  I  sat  here  in  this  same  room,  I  — 
saw.  Could  anything  else  have  opened  my  eyes? 
Perhaps  not.  But  that  did.  I  saw  all  at  once  what 
I  had  been  bolstering.  It  was  no  longer  a  theo- 
retical question  of  the  harm  of  the  club-bar  and 
the  corner  saloon  to  the  community.  They  were 
making  a  drunkard  of  Chilly!  The  Trust  furnished 
their  stock-in-trade.  And  I  had  been  the  Trust's 
paid  tool  —  a  part  of  its  brain  in  this  state  —  had 
guarded  it  from  error,  shown  how  far  it  could  go 
with  impunity  under  the  law,  had  even  made  pos- 
sible its  organisation  as  it  exists  to-day !  I,  Chilly's 
father!  That  night  I  wrote  out  my  resignation  as 
counsel.  I  mailed  it  before  I  slept." 

There  was  a  slight  pause.  Craig's  lowering  look 
had  been  watching  the  other  curiously.  The  emo- 


CRAIG  FINDS  HIS  WEAPON          97 

tion  in  the  older  man's  voice  had  touched  no  chord 
of  response  in  him.  Rather  it  roused  contempt  — 
not  for  the  son,  whom  he  considered  a  brainless 
weakling,  but  for  what  seemed  to  him  an  arrant 
attempt  to  evade  the  issue  that  stood  so  sharply  and 
insistently  in  his  own  mind.  To  him  no  man's  mo- 
tives were  pure.  The  man  before  him  had  been 
not  the  Trust's  servant,  but  its  creature.  Had  not 
the  Corporation,  behind  all,  set  him  on  his  high 
seat?  Was  he  fool  enough  to  think  that  he  — 
Craig  —  was  not  aware  of  that?  It  had  expected 
him  to  pay  in  kind,  when  the  need  arose,  as  now  it 
had.  And  did  the  other  think  to  throw  dust  in 
his  eyes  with  such  mawkish  sentimentalism  —  to 
evade  this  old  tacit  obligation  by  a  flimsy  pretence 
of  moral  scruple?  Craig  spoke: 

"And  —  the  Corporation.  What  did  it  say? 
Eh?" 

"  The  president  of  the  board  came  to  see  me. 
He  was  good  enough  to  ask  me  to  reconsider.  But 
I  had  made  my  choice." 

Craig  leaned  forward,  his  arm  on  the  little  inlaid 
desk  beside  him.  "  Let  me  finish,"  he  said  with 
deliberate  meaning.  "  The  board,  accepting  that 
decision  with  the  keenest  regret,  desired  to  make 
your  retirement  the  occasion  for  showing  in  a  tangi- 
ble way  its  appreciation  of  your  long  and  faithful 
service.  A  seat  on  the  Supreme  Bench  being  vacant, 
the  Directorate  proposed,  unless  your  taste  pointed 


98       THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

otherwise,  to  use  such  influence  as  it  might  possess, 
to  gain  for  your  name  the  consideration  in  that  con- 
nection which  it  deserved." 

A  look  of  surprise  had  crossed  the  Judge's  face  as 
he  began.  A  sensitive  flush  swept  it  as  he  ended. 
"If  you  imply  that  my  seat  was  offered  me,  Mr. 
Craig,  even  tentatively,  at  that  time,  or  in  that  con- 
nection, you  are  in  error !  " 

Craig's  sneer  was  open  now.  There  was  no  more 
pretence.  "If  not  in  so  many  words,  in  effect! 
Pshaw !  Do  you  mean  to  pretend  you  would  have 
had  that  appointment  if  the  Trust  hadn't  backed 
you  for  it?  It  owned  the  state  bag  and  baggage 
then,  as  it  does  now  —  and  as  it  will  continue  to  do ! 
It  put  you  on  the  Bench  and  it  has  kept  you  there, 
and  you  know  it !  " 

The  Judge  was  on  his  feet  now,  his  flush  faded 
to  pallor.  He  deigned  no  answer  to  the  flung  as- 
sertion. "  What  is  your  object  in  coming  to  me 
to  say  this?"  His  voice  was  deep  and  resonant. 

"  Just  this !  "  Craig  lifted  his  arm,  his  big  fist 
clenched,  his  eyes  narrowed.  "  You  were  the 
Trust's  counsel  and  confident  for  twenty  years  — 
till  it  put  you  where  you  are  now!  Do  you  think 
it  did  that  for  nothing?  It  made  you,  Beverly 
Allen!  And  now  it  has  reason  to  believe  that  you 
intend  to  knife  it  in  the  back  —  to  drag  the  ermine 
it  put  on  your  shoulders  into  an  incendiary  hue-and- 
cry  started  by  demagogues  who  aim  to  destroy  a 
great  industry !  " 


CRAIG  FINDS  HIS  WEAPON          99 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  The  Judge's  tone 
was  icy. 

"  I  mean  the  Welles-Scott  decision !  "  Craig  said 
in  a  low,  deadly  voice.  "  That  " —  his  clenched 
hand  smote  the  light  desk  at  his  elbow  with  a  savage 
blow  — "  must  be  ours!  " 

For  an  instant  there  was  blank  silence.  The 
Judge  stood  aghast,  his  very  speech  frozen  with 
indignation.  To  him  his  judicial  calling  had  an  ele- 
ment that  was  almost  sacred.  This  man  —  to 
whom  he  had  given  the  hand  of  friendship,  who 
had  the  entree  into  the  exclusive  circles  of  southern 
gentility  —  this  man  assumed  to  lay  coarse  fingers 
upon  his  vestment  of  office,  to  question  his  integrity 
as  a  Judge!  He  dared  to  believe  him,  Beverly 
Allen,  cheaply  venal  —  a  puppet,  whose  legal  rul- 
ings were  at  the  beck  and  call  of  corporate  influ- 
ence! The  room  seemed  suddenly  stifling  hot. 
He  turned  to  the  window,  flung  the  curtains  wide 
and  drew  a  gulping  breath  of  the  fresh  air. 

He  had  not  seen  Craig's  sudden  start.  For  at 
the  smashing  blow  of  his  fist  on  the  fragile  Italian 
desk,  a  curious  thing  had  happened.  Its  catch  loos- 
ened by  the  jar,  a  tiny  carven  panel  had  fallen  with 
a  little  click,  and  a  thin  sheaf  of  yellowed  letters 
had  dropped  and  spread  fan-wise  beside  his  hand. 
The  backs  of  the  envelopes  were  uppermost,  and 
across  the  top  one  was  written  in  a  dim,  twirly 
hand  and  faded  ink,  the  initials  B.  A. 

A   thought   darted   like   cold   lightning   through 


ioo     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

Craig's  brain.  "  B.  A." —  Beverly  Allen !  Whose 
were  those  old  letters?  The  initials  were  in  a 
woman's  hand.  What  if  they  held  a  clue  to  the 
old  story  Treadwell,  his  attorney,  had  spoken  of? 
A  quick  instinct  inspired  him.  His  hand  closed  over 
them  quickly  —  went  to  his  breast  —  as  the  Judge 
turned  from  the  window. 

The  latter  had  regained  self-control.  He  stood 
erect  and  tall,  his  leonine  head  thrown  back,  his  eyes 
shining,  and  in  his  face  a  look  the  other  had  never 
seen  in  it  before.  "  You  have  presumed,"  he  said, 
"  to  say  to  me  what  I  would  not  have  believed  any 
representative  of  your  corporation  would  dare  to 
say.  And  you  have  taken  advantage  of  my  hospi- 
tality to  say  it  in  my  own  house.  I  choose  now  to 
believe  this  message  an  individual  one,  springing 
from  a  personal  and  base  initiative  rather  than  from 
the  responsible  Directorate  which  I  once  served. 
'  Once,'  I  say.  For  I  serve  it  no  longer.  I  am 
now  a  member  of  the  Judiciary  of  this  common- 
wealth. Because  the  corporation  furthered  my 
candidacy,  you  assume  that  it  '  made  '  me.  Per- 
haps it  did.  But  it  never  owned  my  conscience 
or  my  integrity!  Nor  does  it  now,  thank 
God!" 

As  he  spoke  he  had  stepped  to  the  wall  and 
pushed  a  bell.  "  Nelson,"  he  said,  to  the  entering 
butler,  "  show  this  gentleman  to  the  door." 

Craig  had  risen  to  his  feet.  He  looked  at  the 
other  an  instant  with  livid  face.  Then  he  went 


CRAIG  FINDS  HIS  WEAPON        101 

rapidly  to  the  hall  and  snatched  up  his  hat  and  stick. 
The  outer  door  closed  heavily  behind  him. 

In  his  room  at  the  hotel  Cameron  Craig  took  the 
sheaf  of  letters.  Under  the  electric-light  he  drew 
the  folded  leaves  one  by  one  from  their  worn  en- 
velopes and  spread  them  open  before  him.  A  look 
of  chagrin  crossed  his  face.  No  woman  had  writ- 
ten them;  they  had  been  penned  by  the  Judge  him- 
self —  he  was  familiar  with  the  heavy,  characteristic 
hand-writing.  Were  they,  then,  only  some  old  let- 
ters to  his  wife,  perhaps?  He  was  holding  one 
leaf  to  the  light.  Suddenly  his  eye  caught.  He 
made  an  exclamation.  His  face  lighted  with  amaze 
and  savage  exultation. 

What  a  weapon  blind  luck,  ironic  fate,  had  put 
into  his  hands,  in  the  very  face  of  the  man  for  whom 
he  had  craved  it!  For  on  that  leaf,  etched  in  re- 
morseless ink,  was  what  would  open  an  old  grave, 
drag  into  the  daylight  the  corpse  of  an  ignoble  pas- 
sion, cast  scorn  upon  the  writer's  name  and  blight 
and  wither  present  and  future!  How  little,  after 
all,  the  tricks  of  the  body  changed!  Twenty  years 
—  and  yet,  his  letter! 

What  matter  when  it  had  been  penned,  or  whether 
the  woman  were  long  dead  to  whom  he  had  once 
written  that  blazing  indiscretion?  He,  the  jurist  of 
spotless  living  and  good  repute  —  to  be  shown 
forth  to  the  world  as  a  moral  fraud,  a  husband  and 
father  who  had  once  stood  shamelessly  ready  to 


102      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

fling  home  and  reputation  on  the  scrap-heap  in  a 
disgraceful  flight  "  without  benefit  of  clergy  1 " 
The  woman  presumably  had  scorned  his  ofter  — 
since  she  had  sent  him  back  his  letters  —  and  yet 
on  the  page  still  stood  the  black  intention,  in  black 
and  white!  What  incredible  folly  had  led  him  to 
preserve  it?  Twenty  years  ago  —  in  the  dead  past 
—  and  yet  there  it  was,  to  be  used  in  the  living 
present,  the  blunt  handwriting,  recognisable  at  a 
glance,  damning  and  beyond  denial ! 

He  laughed  aloud.  It  was  Echo's  father  whom 
he  held  in  his  hand !  If  he  did  not  come  to  terms, 
so  much  the  better,  since  the  blow  would  strike  her 
too.  She  thought  herself  above  him,  did  she? 
What  if  this  story  should  be  spread  abroad  in  yellow 
headlines,  babbled  of  in  club  and  boudoir,  smirked 
at  on  street-corners?  Would  she  hold  herself  so 
high  then?  Well,  if  he  was  so  far  beneath  her 
pride,  that  should  bring  her  to  his  level!  He  felt 
no  prick  of  shame  at  the  base  move  he  contemplated, 
no  smart  of  pity  for  the  ruin  it  should  bring.  Am- 
bition in  which  was  no  tincture  of  honourable  scruple 
wove,  with  the  desire  to  humble  the  woman  who 
would  have  none  of  him,  to  a  resolution  as  unyield- 
ing as  steel. 

He  gathered  up  the  letters  and  put  them  carefully 
into  his  pocket.  In  another  hour  he  was  on  the 
train,  speeding  to  his  home  in  the  next  state. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A    HOSTAGE   TO   THE   BOTTLE 

THE  speech  of  the  day  before  of  which  Tread- 
well  had  spoken  so  enthusiastically  to  Cam- 
eron Craig,  had  indeed  given  to  the  crowd, 
which  had  been  wont  on  past  occasions  to  gather 
at  the  old  court-house  when  he  spoke,  another  reve- 
lation of  Harry  Sevier.  It  had  been  impromptu  — 
not  the  outgrowth  of  deliberate  plan.  The  non- 
appearance  of  a  much-heralded  speaker  had  thrust 
the  exigency  upon  him  without  warning,  and  he  had 
acquiesced  only  in  a  keen  desire  to  save  from  blank 
failure  a  meeting  in  whose  principles  and  object  he 
was  by  his  very  character  deeply  interested.  The 
tortuous  involutions  of  local  politics  had  never  inter- 
ested him,  but  he  had  thrilled  to  the  stirring  beneath 
the  surface  of  the  great  forces  of  good  and  evil  and 
the  present  agitation  for  clean  government  had 
found  him  enrolled,  without  question,  on  its  side. 

As  he  stepped  forward  to  face  the  great  curtain 
of  faces  that  stretched  outward  and  upward  beyond 
the  footlights,  he  had  not  known  what  he  should  say. 
Indeed,  while  he  slowly  "  felt "  his  audience  in  his 
opening  sentences,  the  sub-conscious  part  of  his  mind 
had  been  full  of  a  matter  foreign  to  the  subject  at 
hand.  There  had  come  to  him  a  fleeting  recollec- 
103 


io4     THE  LONG  LAKE'S  TURNING 

tion  of  the  last  time  he  had  spoken  in  public  —  the 
day  upon  which  he  had  betrayed  his  client  and  put 
a  man,  of  whose  innocence  an  instinct  deeper-rooted 
than  reason  had  convinced  him,  into  the  striped 
habiliments  of  the  convict.  The  sharp,  aching  com- 
punction of  that  thought  had  never  left  him.  Since 
that  day,  though  he  went  daily  to  his  sumptuous 
office,  he  had  taken  no  new  case.  He  had  gone 
always  with  that  sin  clanking  against  his  conscience 
and  the  memory  of  the  trial  had  focused  always  in 
that  glimpse,  across  the  mass  of  faces,  of  a  woman's 
look  of  puzzle  and  hurt.  During  the  months  since 
then  that  face  had  hung  before  his  fevered  vision  as  a 
far,  cool  oasis  to  the  desert  wayfarer.  These  had 
been  black  months  of  fierce,  untiring  battle  with  the 
appetite  to  which  he  had  surrendered  himself,  and 
which  he  had  sworn  to  conquer.  There  had  been 
times  when  the  avid  thirst  had  seized  him  by  the 
throat,  when  endurance  had  almost  failed:  days 
when  he  had  sat  in  his  inner  office,  with  door  locked 
and  blinds  down,  fighting  desperately  with  the  stren- 
uous impulse  that  seemed  to  be  dragging  him  bodily, 
as  if  with  fleshly  hands,  to  the  little  wall-cabinet 
whose  door  had  never  been  unlocked  since  the  day 
of  that  sinister  court-recess. 

During  this  prolonged,  grappling  struggle  he  had 
never  been  to  Midfields.  He  had  seen  Echo  but 
occasionally,  walking  or  driving  on  the  street,  or 
less  frequently  at  functions  from  which  he  could  not 
absent  himself  without  remark.  There  had  been  no 


A  HOSTAGE  TO  THE  BOTTLE      105 

confidences  between  them.  Never  had  he  leaned  to 
her  to  whisper:  "You  seel  Do  I  do  well?" 
Never  had  her  lips  said,  "  I  know  ...  I  know,  and 
I  am  watching!  "  yet  his  heart  had  told  him  that 
she  was  alive  to  the  issue,  that  she  felt  the  forces 
conflicting  for  the  mastery.  She  had  not  been  in 
the  audience  on  this  day,  but  as  the  faces  pulsed 
and  receded  till  they  wove  into  a  grey  blur  in  the 
misty  blaze  of  the  incandescents,  Harry's  inner  vision 
had  a  swift  memory  of  her  face  as  it  had  looked 
in  that  old  court-house  scene. 

And  with  it,  as  though  it  had  been  a  key  to  the 
disused  mental  machinery,  strangely  and  wonderfully 
there  had  come  back  to  him,  in  a  sudden  flashing 
illumination  like  summer  lightning,  a  surging  return 
of  the  old  power,  the  vivid  rush  of  lambent  images 
in  his  brain  and  the  burning,  insistent  phrase  to  his 
tongue  —  the  power  that  he  had  thought  gone  for- 
ever with  that  shuddering  failure  of  a  year  before. 

As  he  felt  again  the  old  native  ability  rising  in 
him,  strong  and  undismayed,  and  once  more  his  own, 
without  hostage  given  to  the  bottle,  a  stinging  de- 
light had  swept  through  him.  It  was  the  fruit  of 
victory,  and  fiercely  sweet  in  proportion  to  the  bitter- 
ness of  the  struggle.  Yet  in  his  new  sensitiveness 
the  realisation  had  held  a  flicker  of  self-shame. 
Never  in  those  old  days  had  he  employed  that  talent 
for  the  greater  good:  only  for  individual  ambition, 
often  for  the  blunt  defeating  of  the  clear  ends  of 
justice!  It  was  another  Harry  Sevier  who  spoke 


io6     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

now,  one  to  whom  conscience  now  stood  as  mentor, 
to  whom  principle  was  become  a  guiding  star.  The 
leashed  power  and  restraint  had  been  bred  of  that 
long  struggle,  and  from  the  fresh  mastery  of  self 
which  he  had  so  hardly  gained,  flowed  forth  a  subtle 
magnetic  quality  that  held  his  listeners  mute.  In 
the  hush  that  wrapped  the  great  assemblage  the 
speaker  of  the  day,  late  by  an  hour,  had  entered  the 
back  of  the  stage,  to  wave  back  the  nonplussed  chair- 
man and  to  seat  himself  in  the  rear,  enthralled  by  the 
white  magic  that  swayed  all  alike.  The  speech  had 
held  no  rodomontade,  none  of  the  pyrotechnics  that, 
had  lent  a  flavour  of  sensation  to  past  court  trials. 
It  had  been  on  a  higher  plane  than  appeal  to  super- 
ficial feeling  or  ingrained  prejudice.  It  had  brought 
no  accusation,  pointed  no  finger,  save  backward  to 
old  ideals  of  community  respect,  and  forward  to  the 
wave  of  independent  thought  that  was  sweeping  over 
sister  states  to  break  in  thundering  force  upon  the 
crags  of  misrule. 

It  had  closed  in  a  note  of  hope  and  of  promise, 
and  ended  with  the  hall  hushed  in  that  greatest  trib- 
ute to  true  oratory  —  absolute  silence. 

Next  day,  wherever  men  congregated  in  the  little 
capital,  Harry  Sevier's  name  was  on  every  lip.  It 
was  flung  wide,  too,  in  newspaper  headlines  until 
the  ripple  stirred  far  borders.  Of  this  he  himself 
could  not  be  unaware.  He  knew  that  never  in  the  old 
days  had  he  spoken  as  he  had  spoken  then.  He  was 
conscious  also  that  in  the  trial  of  himself  his  facul- 


A  HOSTAGE  TO  THE  BOTTLE      107 

ties  had  been  reorganised  and  renewed,  had  emerged 
sounder  and  truer  from  the  strenuous  testing,  and 
that  the  fire  through  which  he  had  passed  had  burned 
away  the  rubble  and  left  metal  that  was  more  worthy. 
Nor  could  he  fail  to  realise  that  at  a  single  step  he 
had  attained  to  a  new  and  unfamiliar  status  in  the 
community.  He  felt  this  not  so  much  in  the  multiple 
congratulations  of  the  many,  as  in  a  certain  new 
deference  that  he  distinguished  in  more  reserved 
greetings. 

Beneath  all,  however,  but  one  opinion  profoundly 
concerned  him  —  Echo's.  As  he  swung  along  the 
street  this  afternoon,  the  thought  of  her  excluded 
all  others. 

Rounding  the  corner,  a  voice  came  to  him  — r  a 
ribald,  good-humoured  voice,  inviting  some  one  to 
"  come  and  have  a  drink."  He  turned  abruptly. 
Chisholm  Allen  stood  a  little  way  from  him,  before 
a  swing-door  through  which  sifted  the  clink  of 
glasses  and  boisterous  conversation. 

Chilly  was  decidedly  the  worse  for  wear.  Much 
water  had  run  under  the  bridges  since  he  had  tussled 
with  old  Nelson,  the  butler,  over  the  decanter  of 
sherry.  His  face  was  pallid  and  the  marks  of  incor- 
rigible weakness  and  self-indulgence  showed  clearly 
through  its  habitual  good-nature.  Chilly's  feet  were 
set  in  the  paths  of  dalliance  and  he  had  ceased  to 
care  if  anybody  knew  it.  He  greeted  the  newcomer, 
however,  with  a  trace  of  embarrassment  which  he 
dissipated  with  a  laugh,  as  he  said: 


io8      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

"  The  invitation's  for  you,  if  you  like,  Harry. 
We'll  have  one  to  the  silver-tongued  orator  1  What 
do  you  say?  " 

For  answer  Harry  linked  an  arm  in  his  and  turned 
him  down  the  street  —  away  from  the  swing-door. 
"  Come  up  to  my  rooms,  Chilly,  it's  cool  there  and 
we  haven't  had  a  talk  for  a  blue  moon.  No,  we'll 
consider  the  drink  afterward." 

Just  at  the  moment  a  carriage  and  pair  bowled 
by  them.  It  was  drawn  by  the  Aliens'  bays  and 
Echo  was  on  the  rear  seat,  She  had  seen  the  action, 
had  caught  its  import,  and  Harry  had  a  flashing 
glance  from  her  dark  eyes  that  sent  the  blood  cours- 
ing to  his  fingers.  Chilly  too,  however,  had  seen 
the  swift  exchange.  He  frowned,  then  laughed 
again. 

"  You  should  join  the  Salvation  Army,"  he  said, 
satirically.  "  They've  a  rescue  corps,  I  believe.  I 
know  a  pretty  ensign,  and  she  shall  come  and  pin 
a  nice  little  medal  on  your  manly  chest!  " 

Harry  smiled  without  resentment.  "  The  Army 
might  not  be  so  bad;  it's  an  outdoor  life  at  any 
rate.  You'd  be  better  for  more  of  that." 

"  I  believe  you,"  said  Chilly  lugubriously. ,  "  It's 
getting  impossible  indoors.  Nothing  doing  but 
moral  lectures  nowadays.  If  it  weren't  for  the 
Duchess  I'd  cut  it." 

"  For  '  somewhere  east  of  Suez,  where  a  man  can 
raise  a  thirst '?  "  quoted  the  other  mildly.  "  Travel 
is  expensive,  Chilly." 


A  HOSTAGE  TO  THE  BOTTLE      109 

"  Yes,  confound  it,"  was  the  reply.  "  So  is  the 
thirst.  The  old  man  only  allows  me  fifty  dollars 
a  month  and  I've  stuck  up  every  bar  in  town  to  the 
limit." 

A  frown  was  on  Harry's  brow.  A  year  ago  this 
youth  had  confined  his  daily  potations  to  the  club, 
and  his  drinking-bouts  to  that  sequestered  resort, 
"  The  Springs."  Now  he  drank  openly  in  corner 
saloons  —  he,  the  son  of  a  southern  gentleman,  a 
member  of  the  Supreme  Bench,  whose  forebears 
had  been  courtly  and  clean-living  from  the  days  of 
the  Colony!  They  had  turned  into  the  apartment- 
building  now,  and  a  moment  later  were  in  Harry's 
sitting-room,  whose  windows  opened  upon  a  square 
musical  with  lisping  leaves  and  the  cool  splash  of  a 
fountain. 

It  was  an  apartment  that  bespoke  a  keen  though 
sober  artistic  taste:  grey  walls  with  violet  silk  cur- 
tains at  the  deep  windows  and  two  or  three  old 
paintings  —  among  these,  set  on  an  easel,  a  Greuze 
that  he  had  unearthed  in  a  cobwebbed  curio-shop  in 
Italy  —  a  plain  desk  with  a  strip  of  dull-coloured 
damask  whose  quaint  Russian  needle-work  set  off 
a  few  books  in  tooled  leather  —  a  square  piano  of 
Circassian  walnut  spread  with  an  old  brocade,  against 
which  a  bowl  of  peonies  splashed  their  fleshy  crim- 
son —  and  deep,  comfortable  chairs.  Into  one  of 
these  Chilly  threw  himself. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  here  we  are,  as  per  schedule. 
So  trot  out  your  drink." 


no     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

"  It  was  that  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about.  I 
think  you  know  I'm  your  friend,  Chilly,  and  what 
I  say  I  say  as  a  friend.  Whisky  is  getting  the  better 
of  you." 

"  Pshaw !  "  scoffed  Chilly,  easily.  "  You  weren't 
always  so  mighty  particular.  When  did  you  climb 
onto  the  water-wagon,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

"  When  I  found  I  was  better  off  there.  I  haven't 
touched  liquor  for  a  year.  Take  my  advice,  Chilly 
—  it's  sound !  —  and  try  to  cut  the  drink  out.  It's 
doing  you  harm." 

Chilly  laughed.  "  That  seems  to  be  the  signal 
all  along  the  line ! "  he  said  humorously.  "  But 
what's  the  good?  I  could  knock  off  any  time  I 
chose,  just  as  well  as  you.  But  I  don't  intend  to 
do  it  yet  awhile.  I  like  it." 

There  was  a  tentative  knock  at  the  door.  It 
opened  and  a  girl's  piquant  face  peered  in.  "  Chis- 
holm  Allen ! "  said  Nancy  Langham's  indignant 
voice.  "  Have  you  forgotten  you  have  an  engage- 
ment to  take  me  to  the  kennels  this  afternoon?  " 

Chilly  sprang  forward  and  seized  her  small  gloved 
hands.  "  Come  in,"  he  said.  "  There's  nobody 
here  but  Harry  and  me.  Please  do,  Nancy." 

"  Oh,  I  mustn't  I  "  She  turned  to  the  latter. 
"  You  see  I  needed  Chilly  so  tremendously,  and  Echo 
told  me  she  saw  him  with  you.  I  expected  to  meet 
him  on  the  way.  Then  I  thought  I'd  just  ring  and 
ask  for  him,  only  the  hall  door  was  open.  Chilly, 


A  HOSTAGE  TO  THE  BOTTLE      in 

you're  outrageously  undependable.  You  know  I 
wanted  to  get  that  dog  to-day,  because  I'm  going  to 
leave  for  home  to-morrow,  and  you  do  know  more 
about  dogs  than  any  one  else." 

Chilly  looked  a  little  shame-faced.  "  I  forgot  all 
about  it,  Nancy.  Honestly,  I  did." 

She  sighed.  "  That's  the  fact,  no  doubt,  but  it's 
not  one  bit  complimentary.  You're  so  dreadfully 
truthful,  Chilly !  Come  along  now,  or  we'll  be  too 
late." 

"  All  right,"  he  answered,  drawing  her  inside  the 
door.  "  Just  a  minute.  Harry's  going  to  give  me 
a  drink.  Weren't  you,  Harry,  eh?  " 

For  answer  the  other  pressed  a  button  and  a  trim 
silk-robed  Japanese  came  noiselessly  from  the  next 
room.  "  Fetch  a  bottle  of  Evien,  Suzuki,"  he  said, 
"  and  some  glasses.  Have  it  cold,  please." 

Chilly  stared.  "  Mineral  water !  "  he  exclaimed 
with  sulky  discomfiture.  "  My  word  I  This  is  no 
signal  for  the  H2O.  I'm  dry!  " 

Harry  shook  his  head.  "  I'm  sorry,  but  it's  a 
rule  of  my  house." 

Chilly  shrugged.  For  an  instant  a  little  sneer 
drew  down  his  lips,  irritation  fighting  with  his  sel- 
dom-failing good-humour.  He  turned  to  the  square 
piano,  sat  down  on  its  stool,  and  ran  his  fingers  up 
and  down  the  ivory  keys. 

"  I'll  return  good  for  evil,"  he  said.  "  Before 
we  go  I'll  give  you  a  little  ballad  I've  just  composed. 


ii2     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

It's  bound  to  make  a  great  hit  when  it  strikes  the 
Barbary  Coast.  He  struck  a  resounding  chord,  and 
with  a  wink  at  Harry,  began  to  sing: 

"  The  rounder  swore  at  his  barroom  score 

'Ere  he  called  for  a  last,  long  bottle, 
And  proceeded  to  tint,  without  any  stint, 

His  nose  with  a  mellow  mottle. 
Then  he  climbed  on  a  chair  and  hiccoughed  long 
And  loudly  he  sang  this  funny  old  song: 

"  '  Money  is  dross, 

Loving  is  loss, 
There's  never  a  crown  that  is  worth  its  cross! 

Life  is  a  toss, 

Dying  is  moss, 
But  booze  —  Oh,  bully  old  booze,  is  boss ! '  " 

There  was  something  of  whimsical  fun,  yet  of 
bitter  recklessness  in  the  spectacle.  Without  techni- 
cal training,  Chilly  had  music  in  his  finger-tips  and 
a  fair  baritone  voice.  The  fingers  wavered  now  and 
then  and  the  voice  was  shaken  a  little,  but  it  was 
full  of  magnetism,  as,  swaying  lightly  on  the  stool, 
he  rolled  out  the  slangy  doggerel  with  all  the  unc- 
tion of  a  music-hall  artist: 

"  Then  the  mixer  laughed  till  the  cat  went  daft 

And  the  roof  clanged  all  its  gutters, 
While  the  loungers  yelled  with  mirth  unquelled 

Till  they  shook  the  very  shutters; 
And  a  sweet-faced  devil  peeped  over  the  steins 
And  merrily  carolled  the  lilting  lines: 


A  HOSTAGE  TO  THE  BOTTLE      113 

;< '  Money  is  dross, 

Loving  is  loss, 
There's  never  a  crown  that  is  worth  its  cross. 

Life  is  a  toss, 

Dying  is  moss, 
But  booze  —  Oh,  bully  old  boose,  is  boss! '  " 

Harry's  nerves  were  on  edge.  It  was  not  the 
cheap  vulgarity  of  the  jingle  nor  the  patent  swagger 
of  the  performer,  but  the  under-suggestion  of  the 
picture.  The  edge  of  this  qualm  had  touched  him 
on  the  street,  with  the  odour  of  Chilly's  breath  and 
the  moist  tang  of  hops  that  had  floated  through  the 
swinging-door.  Now  he  felt  a  sudden  anger  that 
the  coarse  picturing  and  the  tinkling  keys  had  power 
to  call  up,  even  for  an  instant,  the  old  slinking,  crav- 
ing ache  in  his  throat. 

Chilly  swung  round  and  got  up  laughing.  "  Pretty 
good,  eh,  what?  "  he  said.  "  Come  along,  Nancy; 
we'll  go  and  pick  out  that  dog !  So  long,  Harry." 

Harry  opened  the  door  for  them.  He  did  not 
trust  himself  to  speak.  As  Nancy's  hand  lay  an  in- 
stant in  his  on  the  threshold,  a  wave  of  sudden  pity 
engulfed  him.  Her  cheeks  were  mist-pale  and 
her  girlish  lips  were  trembling. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    HEART  OF  A   MAN 

AN  hour  later  Harry  sat  in  the  same  pleasant 
room,  looking  out  where  curdled  clouds  set 
their  silver  sails  in  the  pale  shimmer  of  sky. 
A  light  breeze  fluttered  the  figured-silk  curtains,  a 
blue-bottle  buzzed  tentatively  to  and  fro  outside, 
and  birds  were  fluting  in  the  trees  of  the  small  park 
and  splashing  joyously  in  the  fountain. 

The  encounter  with  Chilly  had  broken  into  his 
mood,  which  had  been  occupied  with  more  inviting 
things.  Now,  alone,  the  thought  of  what  this  day 
held  for  him  absorbed  him.  "  One  year!  "  he  had 
said  to  himself  on  the  day  of  that  old  court-house 
trial.  "  That  is  the  test  I  will  give  myself.  It  is 
enough.  If  I  can  beat  the  brandy  for  a  year,  I 
can  beat  it  forever!  "  To-day  was  an  anniversary; 
this  afternoon  the  year  was  up.  The  period  ha-d 
called  up  all  his  courage,  had  searched  out  with 
prying  fingers  every  crevice  of  weakness,  explored 
insistently  each  avenue  of  uncontrol.  But  he  had 
won  the  long  battle,  and  the  resurgence  of  the  old 
power  that  had  come  to  him  in  his  yesterday's  speech 
had  crowned  the  victory  with  confidence.  Yester- 
day he  would  have  died  sooner  than  to  have  wrung 
114 


THE  HEART  OF  A  MAN  115 

from  his  lips  what  he  should  say  to  her  —  to  Echo 
—  to-day ! 

When  the  tall  old  clock  in  the  corner  next  chimed 
he  rose  and  called,  "  Suzuki !  " 

The  Japanese  servant  of  spotless  raiment  entered 
with  noiseless  footsteps. 

"  Tell  Aunt  Judy  I  sha'n't  want  dinner  to-night," 
said  Sevier;  "  I'll  dine  at  the  club.  You  can  take 
the  night  off,  if  you  like;  I'll  let  myself  in." 

"  Hai-el  "  Suzuki  sucked  in  his  breath  and  his 
oval  eyes  allowed  themselves  a  gleam  of  satisfac- 
tion. As  he  brought  his  master's  hat  and  stick 
Harry  looked  at  him  meditatively,  wondering,  as  he 
had  wondered  a  thousand  times,  what  lay  behind 
that  secret-keeping,  brown  face  with  its  perpetual, 
half-smiling  gravity.  He  had  picked  him  up  a  half- 
dozen  years  before  in  his  travels,  a  shabby  and  abject 
adventurer  with  an  English  dialect  that  was  fear- 
fully and  wonderfully  made;  and  the  youthful  flot- 
sam had  speedily  and  without  apparent  tuition  blos- 
somed forth  into  that  inestimable  jewel,  a  perfect 
valet.  With  Aunt  Judy  the  cook,  who  had  been 
a  servant  of  his  father's,  Bob  the  chauffeur  who  was 
her  son,  and  Suzuki,  Harry's  bachelor  menage  in 
the  city  stood  a  model  of  its  kind,  and  the  despair 
of  his  associates. 

Harry  walked  slowly  along  the  street  clanging 
with  cars,  on  pavements  busy  and  sunny  at  first  and 
giving  place  gradually  to  wedges  of  lawn  and 
stretches  of  deserted  foliaged  flagging  as  he  ap- 


n6      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

preached  the  suburbs.  At  the  big  gate  of  Midfields 
he  lifted  his  eyes.  Mrs.  Allen  was  just  stepping 
from  her  electric  at  the  curb,  cool  and  statuesque 
and  smiling. 

"  A  penny  for  your  thoughts  I  "  she  said.  "  I 
really  believe  you  were  counting  the  flag-stones.  I 
hope  you  were  coming  in  —  you've  been  shamefully 
oblivious  of  our  pleasure  this  season !  " 

"  I've  been  oblivious  of  my  own,"  he  countered, 
opening  the  gate  for  her.  "  But  I'm  going  to  make 
amends  in  future." 

They  walked  leisurely  up  the  drive  under  the 
acacias,  chatting.  She  had  often  wondered,  in  the 
old  days,  whether  there  were  not  some  understand- 
ing between  him  and  Echo,  and  his  long  absence  had 
puzzled  her.  But  he  had  apparently  gone  nowhere 
else,  and  she  welcomed  his  return.  He  was  a  dis- 
tinctly eligible  parti,  and  Echo  had  reached  a  point 
where  the  future  was  a  pertinent  thing.  There  had 
never  been  between  the  mother  and  daughter  that 
close  rapport  which  existed  between  daughter  and 
father;  Mrs.  Allen  had  never  felt  that  she  under- 
stood Echo.  She  had  never  known  for  her,  even  as 
a  child,  the  fierce  and  excluding  yearning  which  she 
had  lavished  on  Chisholm,  and  which  had  grown 
even  stronger  with  the  latter's  increasing  years  and 
delinquencies.  But  she  had  Echo's  interests  thor- 
oughly at  heart,  and  Harry  Sevier  —  particularly 
since  his  speech  at  the  Opera  House  —  had  attained 
to  importance  in  her  worldly  estimation. 


THE  HEART  OF  A  MAN  117 

"  I  haven't  congratulated  you,"  she  said  presently. 
"Your  speech!  It  was  a  masterly  thing." 

"You  were  there?  I'm  glad  I  didn't  know  it. 
It  would  have  deepened  the  blueness  of  my  funk." 

"  Flatterer!  "  She  tapped  him  on  the  arm  with 
her  parasol.  "  But  I'm  not  wholly  pleased,  I  assure 
you.  The  headlines  are  prophetic,  I'm  afraid. 
Presently  the  politicians  will  seize  upon  you,  and 
the  first  we  know  you  will  be  in  Congress  —  or  the 
Senate  —  and  the  town  will  have  lost  you.  That's 
the  way  it  goes !  " 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head,  "  who  is  the 
flatterer  now?  " 

They  had  reached  the  big  porch  and  she  drew 
him  into  the  hall  and  to  the  blue  parlour,  where 
the  Judge  sat  with  Echo,  leisurely  munching  toast. 
"  I've  brought  Mr.  Sevier,"  she  announced,  "  with 
his  laurels  thick  upon  him,  just  in  time  for  tea.  For 
my  part,  I  am  a  wreck  from  the  sun  and  I  shall  take 
mine  in  my  room.  But  you'll  come  soon  again, 
won't  you?  " 

She  passed  out,  faintly  smiling  and  leaving  a  per- 
fume of  heliotrope  behind  her,  without  waiting 
Harry's  answer,  which  seemed  indeed  to  be  given  to 
Echo,  since  his  hand  held  hers  at  the  moment  and 
his  eyes  were  on  her  face.  The  sight  for  him  had 
blotted  everything  else.  The  restful  room  with  its 
cool  shadows,  the  Judge  —  all  seemed  to  retire  into 
an  inextinguishable  and  meaningless  background, 
leaving  only  them  two,  together.  In  the  year  past 


n8      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

he  had  never  been  so  near  her;  now  he  marked  that 
while  her  hair  had  the  same  familiar  whorl  and 
golden  under-lights,  her  face  seemed  more  serious 
than  of  old,  her  eyes  deeper  and  more  wistful. 

Since  that  far-away  evening  at  the  Country  Club, 
Echo  had  passed  through  a  confusion  of  experiences, 
the  more  trying  as  they  had  been  locked  in  her  own 
breast.  It  had  been  more  than  Harry  Sevier:  it 
was  her  love  for  him  that  had  been  fought  over 
during  that  long  year.  When  he  had  left  her  that 
night  with  his  kiss  burning  on  her  hand,  she  had 
known  instinctively  that  he  had  gone  to  do  battle. 
What  she  had  said  had  stung  him  deeply,  yet  she 
could  not  have  recalled  a  word.  It  had  been  the 
cry  of  wounded  pride,  of  stricken  ideals,  of  reproach, 
of  protest  against  the  dominancy  of  the  thing  she 
hated  over  the  man  she  loved.  As  the  long  months 
of  autumn  and  winter  wore  away  she  had  seemed, 
with  a  singular  clarity  of  vision,  to  see  his  temptation 
and  to  enter  spiritually  into  his  struggle.  They  had 
met  only  a  few  times  and  then  in  public  places  and 
more  than  once  her  eye  had  distinguished  the  traces 
of  the  conflict.  Something  deep  in  her  had  told  her 
that  when  he  came  to  her  again  that  conflict  would 
be  ended.  So,  at  sight  of  him  on  the  threshold, 
Echo's  heart  had  leaped  into  turbulent  beating. 
Here,  at  last,  they  were  face  to  face  —  it  was  the 
closure  of  the  past,  the  burgeoning  of  the  new ! 

There  was  a  desultory  conversation  over  the  tea, 
and  then  the  Judge  went  back  to  his  chair  in  the 


THE  HEART  OF  A  MAN  119 

library,  and  they  two  strayed  out  through  the  open 
French-window  to  the  wide  porch.  There,  on  the 
top  step,  she  sat  down,  leaning  back  against  one  of 
the  big  columns,  up  which  a  crimson  rambler  climbed. 
He  sat  lower,  at  her  feet.  The  smile  had  faded 
from  both  their  faces,  and  a  rose  that  was  on  her 
breast,  from  the  tumult  of  her  heart,  showered  its 
petals  on  the  stone.  He  could  see  the  old  sun-dial 
gleaming  from  its  tangle  of  ivy.  He  knew  its  quaint 
motto  : 

Hours  fly,   flowers   die. 
New  men,  new  ways, 

Pass  by; 

Love  stays. 

After  a  silence  he  lifted  his  gaze. 

"  You  didn't  think,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  that 
I  stayed  away  because  I  —  because  that  same  thing 
had  ever  happened  since  the  day  of  the  trial?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered,  gently,  "  I  knew  it  hadn't." 

A  uniformed  imp  on  a  bicycle  —  a  postal  messen-, 
ger  —  careened  wildly  up  the  drive  with  a  special 
delivery  letter.  They  saw  him  deliver  it  to  old 
Nelson  at  the  side  portico  and  pedal  whistling  down 
a  by-path. 

"  Then,"  he  said  quickly,  "  you  know  now  that  it 
never  can  again  ?  It  has  been  a  year,  a  round  year 
to-day.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I  would  not  come 
to  you  till  the  last  day  was  out." 

"  I  felt  that,  too,"  she  said.     "  I  knew  what  you 


120     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

were  thinking.  I  —  I  even  guessed  the  year.  Was 
it  — so  hard?" 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  But  it  would  have  been 
harder  if  I  hadn't  found  it  out  when  I  did.  The 
sting  of  all  these  months,"  he  went  on,  "  has  been 
your  thought  of  me !  Every  day,  every  hour,  I  have 
seen  you  as  you  looked  that  night  at  the  '  Farm.'  I 
shall  never  deserve  that  look  again  —  Echo  1  " 

She  turned  toward  him  at  that,  as  if  with  a  sudden 
impulse,  her  eyes  like  sapphire  stars,  her  lips  parted, 
but  she  did  not  speak.  The  failing  sunlight  spat- 
tered down  through  the  moving  foliage  in  green- 
gilt  flashes  that  tinged  her  face  and  touched  her  hair 
with  the  soft  burnish  of  Venetian  gold,  like  that  of  a 
figure  he  remembered  in  St.  Mark's.  Behind  her 
reared  the  seamed  and  grey  old  column  —  a  faded 
background  of  age  for  a  figure  of  immortal  youth 
—  and  he  knew  suddenly  that  the  picture  of  her,  as 
he  saw  her  at  that  moment,  had  covered  forever  the 
painful  memory.  There  was  only  the  ardent,  un- 
conditional now:  only  Echo  and  the  dear  old  porch 
and  the  dimming  daylight  —  and  a  bluebird  singing 
from  the  heart  of  a  tree  —  ever  henceforward  to  be 
symbols  to  him  of  woman's  love  and  —  home ! 

He  leaned  toward  her,  his  hand  groping  for  hers, 
outstretched  on  the  cool  stone  beside  her,  and  said 
in  a  voice  shaken,  in  spite  of  himself: 

"  Echo  —  it  is  just  as  it  was  a  year  ago,  isn't  it?  " 

She  caught  her  hand  —  the  one  he  groped  for  — 
to  her  cheek.  She  rose,  and  for  an  instant  it  seemed 


THE  HEART  OF  A  MAN  121 

as  if  she  had  not  heard.  Then  her  glance  wavered 
and  fell  and  a  bright,  rich  colour  stained  her  cheeks 
like  a  sudden  flush  of  rosy  sun-set.  But  she  had 
slightly  turned  away  and  he  did  not  see  it. 

"  Ah!  "  he  said,  looking  up  at  her.  "  I  may  say 
it  now  —  may  I  not?  —  what  you  must  have  known 
all  along.  I  love  you,  I  love  you  I  Only  you  and  your 
love,  dear  —  that  is  all  I  ask  of  God ! . . .  Echo  — " 

There  was  a  sudden  sound  behind  them,  a  hoarse 
cry  from  the  room  they  had  left.  Both  turned 
sharply  toward  the  French-window.  Then  she  was 
down  the  long  porch  like  a  flying  shadow. 

He  followed,  to  find  her  bending  over  the  form  of 
her  father,  slipped  sideways  on  the  leathern  sofa, 
his  face  bluish-white  and  a  paper  crumpled  in  his 
rigid  hand.  At  the  same  moment  Nelson  thrust  his 
woolly  head  through  the  rear  door. 

"Quick!"  she  cried,  kneeling  beside  the  couch. 
"  He  has  fainted.  Call  mother."  He  went,  his 
aged  features  twitching  with  fright. 

"  I  will  send  Doctor  Southall,"  said  Harry 
quickly.  He  touched  her  hand,  and  with  a  single 
backward  look  at  her,  hurried  out.  She  heard  his 
step  speeding  down  the  gravel  drive. 

Echo  laid  a  tremulous  hand  upon  her  father's, 
and  at  the  touch  the  tense  fingers  relaxed  and  a 
crumpled  brown  paper  dropped  from  them.  She 
snatched  it  up  —  was  that  what  had  made  him  faint? 
She  spread  it  out:  it  was  a  photographic  print,  un- 
mounted, of  the  last  page  of  a  letter,  in  his  own 


122      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

handwriting.  Across  the  top  was  printed,  in  the 
purple,  noncommittal  lettering  of  a  typewriter, 
44  For  possible  release  May  3rd." 

Then  as  she  gazed,  over  the  agitation  of  her  face 
grew  a  shocked  bewilderment  that  rushed  headlong 
to  realisation.  She  started  to  her  feet,  and  a  vivid 
scarlet  flooded  her  pale  face  from  chin  to  brow,  then 
slowly  ebbed,  leaving  behind  it  a  frozen  anguish. 
The  print  fell  from  her  hand.  At  the  same  moment 
the  Judge  stirred  and  opened  his  eyes.  He  saw  her 
standing  before  him ;  knowledge  slipped  back. 

"  Echo  — " 

She  turned  swiftly.  He  had  struggled  to  a  sitting 
posture  —  his  gaze  fastened  on  the  crumpled  paper 
on  the  rug.  A  little  spasm  crossed  his  face. 
"  Reach  me  that,"  he  said. 

She  picked  it  up  and  laid  it  in  his  hand,  and  he 
put  it  into  his  pocket  with  shaking  fingers.  He 
passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead.  "  Where's 
Sevier?  "  he  asked  dully. 

"  He  went  to  send  the  doctor.  We  were  on  the 
porch  and  heard  you  cry  out." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  —  remember.  I  tried  to  call  you. 
I  lost  track  of  things  for  a  minute  or  two,  I  reckon, 
But  it's  nothing.  I've  had  little  spells  like  this  be- 
fore. I  don't  need  Southall  —  send  Nelson  to  tell 
him  not  to  come.  I'm  all  right." 

Unheeding  her  protests,  he  rose  and  went  to  his 
chair,  as  Mrs.  Allen,  with  unaccustomed  agitation 
on  her  face,  swept  into  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    HANDWRITING   ON   THE   WALL 

LATE  that  night  the  Judge  sat  alone  at  his 
desk  in  the  library.  There  was  a  faint  pun- 
gent odour  in  the  room  and  at  his  elbow  sat 
an  ash-tray  on  which  was  a  little  huddle  of  brown 
ashes  —  all  that  remained  of  the  photograph  whose 
arrival  that  afternoon  had  so  disconcerted  him.  He 
sat  like  a  stone  image,  staring  out  into  the  moon- 
lighted garden,  but  really  seeing  nothing  beyond  the 
range  of  the  poisonous  ashes  at  his  side,  save  a 
green-and-yellow  blur  that  might  have  been  blent  of 
leaves  and  moonshine. 

He  was  looking  at  the  Handwriting  on  the  Wall. 
All  of  his  early  life  had  been  impeccable,  all  save 
that  single  lapse  —  that  "  brain-storm  "  which  had 
convulsed  the  deep  and  quiet  waters  of  his  nature. 
It  had  come  and  gone  with  fateful  swiftness,  and 
out  of  the  bitterness  of  the  tragic  awakening  had 
grown  gradually  —  as  a  spotless  lily  springs  from 
the  silt  —  a  flower  of  recompense,  which,  its  roots 
in  the  turbid  memory,  had  shed  a  subtle  perfume  on 
his  later  life.  His  steady-going  career  had  been 
laurelled  with  place  and  honours,  and  in  Echo  he  had 
found  compensation  for  the  empty  and  the  missed. 
And  now,  after  all  the  years,  Fate  grinned  at  him 
123 


124     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

like  a  gargoyle  from  the  cloud,  holding  the  thunder- 
bolt to  destroy  him !  Unless  he  paid  the  penalty  — 
with  his  professional  integrity ! 

The  Judge  knew  all  at  once  that  in  the  Great 
Economy  no  act  of  life  was  lost.  His  had  not  been. 
It  had  only  been  covered.  Somewhere  that  old  leaf 
of  scribbled  paper  had  lain,  inert  but  potential,  wait- 
ing the  turn  of  the  wheel  to  bring  it  to  light.  By 
some  satanic  twist  of  circumstance  it  had  come  to 
the  hands  of  his  enemy  —  Craig  was  his  enemy  now 
—  and  in  his  hands  it  spelled  his  own  ruin.  What 
weapon  was  there  to  fight  with  ?  None.  However 
dastard  the  act  that  spread  it  to  the  world,  he  would 
stand  in  the  eyes  of  his  fellow-men  discredited,  un- 
ermined,  morally  disestablished,  stripped  and  naked 
of  all  those  things  which  were  the  breath  of  his  life. 
He  thought  of  his  wife  —  of  Echo.  For  them 
humiliation,  looks  askance.  His  decision  on  the 
Welles-Scott  case  was  ready,  locked  in  his  drawer  — 
lacking  only  his  signature  writ  at  the  bottom  —  the 
most  vital  and  far-reaching  decision  of  any  he  had 
rendered.  On  the  first  of  May  it  was  to  be  handed 
down.  He  remembered  the  typewritten  line  on  the 
photograph :  "  May  3rd !  "  On  that  day  he  would 
be  placarded  in  the  public  prints! 

A  hackneyed  text  flashed  through  his  mind :  "  Be 
sure  thy  sin  will  find  thee  out."  He  had  not  sinned, 
as  the  world  counted  it,  no.  But  chasing  the  first, 
a  second  text  etched  itself  as  swiftly:  "  As  a  man 
thinketh  in  his  heart,  so  is  he." 


THE  HANDWRITING  ON  THE  WALL     125 

The  coils  had  woven  inextricably,  there  was  no 
gap  in  the  meshes.  Suppose  he  did  this  thing  that 
Craig  demanded,  rewrote  the  decision,  perjured 
himself.  Right,  by  another  judgment,  would  have 
its  way  in  the  end.  The  act  would  save  him  from 
shame  —  would  save  others  as  well.  What  did  it 
matter  ?  Would  not  such  a  solution  be  best  for  all 
concerned? 

"  Thou  shalt  not  do  evil  that  good  may  come !  " 
—  it  was  curious  how  the  banal,  forgotten  texts 
started  up,  like  Jack-in-boxes,  from  some  boyhood 
covert  of  his  brain!  Not  matter?  Ah,  how  much 
it  mattered!  Escape  by  that  road  was  impossible 
for  him.  And  there  was  but  one  other  road  by 
which  he  could  evade  the  issue. 

He  unlocked  a  desk-drawer  and  pushed  aside  its 
litter  of  papers.  A  small  silver-mounted  revolver 
lay  there  —  pointing  the  one  way  out.  He  picked 
it  up,  his  fingers  shrinking  at  the  chill  of  the  cool 
metal,  then  laid  it  on  the  desk.  He  took  a  sheet 
of  paper  from  its  place  and  began  to  write :  "  Dear 
Echo  — •" 

He  started;  no,  that  would  not  do.  He  began 
again :  "  Dear  Charlotte  and  — " 

He  paused  an  instant  and  listened  —  his  hearing 
had  caught  some  sound  above-stairs.  It  was  not 
repeated  and  he  bent  his  head  again  over  the  writ- 
ing. But  his  fingers  would  not  frame  the  words. 
He  laid  aside  the  pen.  Better,  after  all,  to  go  all 
silently,  leaving  behind  him  empty  speculation,  which 


126      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

if  painful  at  first,  would  become  in  time  but  a  soft- 
ened memory ! 

It  was  the  opening  of  the  door  of  Echo's  room 
which  he  had  heard.  For  hours  she  had  lain  sleep- 
less, her  brain  throbbing,  strange  painful  pictures 
flitting  under  her  closed  eyelids.  Her  home  world, 
which  had  always  seemed  simple  and  uncomplex, 
even  in  its  darker  aspects,  had  suddenly  become  fate- 
ful and  mysterious,  a  thing  of  secret  depths  and 
shaming,  piteous  revelations.  Her  own  father's 
past  had  held  a  secret  that  would  not  bear  the  light ! 
That  he  had  loved  another  woman  than  her  mother 
—  afterward  —  that,  though  the  thought  was  repel- 
lent, perhaps  he  could  not  have  helped.  But  that 
he  had  ever,  ever  as  a  passing  phase,  yielded  to  an 
infatuation  which  had  taken  no  thought  of  conse- 
quence or  of  convention  smote  her  with  a  kind  of 
terror.  Now,  through  his  own  reckless  act,  he  had 
become  the  prey  of  a  shameless  woman  —  of  a 
blackmailer. 

For  that  was  what  it  seemed  to  her.  It  did  not 
occur  to  her  that  his  letter  might  have  fallen  into 
other  hands.  In  her  imagination,  back  of  the  situ- 
ation stood  the  woman  who  had  tempted  him,  al- 
most to  his  complete  undoing,  in  his  youth,  now  — 
a  very  wanton !  —  holding  out  the  badge  of  his  in- 
discretion, for  a  price!  The  photograph  had  come 
to  him  with  its  blunt  threat  typed  at  the  top :  "  For 
Possible  Release  May  3rd."  Echo  had  seen  the 
like  many  a  time  written  upon  her  father's  printer's- 


THE  HANDWRITING  ON  THE  WALL     127 

proofs.  It  meant  released  for  publication.  His 
letter  was  to  be  spread  broadcast  —  unless  he  met 
the  demand !  The  hideous  vulgarity  of  his  predica- 
ment sent  pulsing  waves  of  shame  and  humiliation 
over  her.  It  seemed  suddenly  that  their  conven- 
tional, well-ordered  existence  had  dropped  all  at 
once  into  an  unnatural  and  hateful  environment,  the 
murky,  unredeemable  atmosphere  of  the  yellow- 
backed  novel  and  the  tawdry  film-play.  Thoughts 
such  as  these  had  fought  with  the  acute  sympathy 
that  had  all  her  life  made  her  and  her  father  in 
feeling  wellnigh  inseparable,  stabbing  her  love  with 
the  reflection  that  his  deepest  heart  had,  after  all, 
been  locked  from  her. 

Gradually,  however,  the  sharper  corrosive  ache 
had  dulled  away,  leaving  an  overmastering  sense  of 
his  trouble.  Since  Nelson  had  helped  him  to  his 
room  after  his  fainting  in  the  library,  she  had  not 
seen  him,  for  though  he  had  with  curious  stubborn- 
ness, it  had  seemed  to  her,  refused  to  have  the  doctor 
come,  he  had  not  appeared  at  dinner.  She  won- 
dered whether  he  was  now  asleep,  or  lying  wide- 
eyed,  nursing  thoughts  like  hers.  Finally  there  had 
stolen  over  her  an  odd  uneasiness,  a  thriving  anxiety. 
That  tenuous  telegraphy  whose  laws  evade  analysis 
though  its  operations  are  familiar  and  which,  ever 
since  her  childhood,  had  called  from  her  a  subcon- 
scious and  involuntary  response  to  his  moods  that 
had  sometimes  startled  them  both  by  its  eerie  sug- 
gestion, now  flooded  her  mind  with  a  sense  of  warn- 


128      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

ing.  She  slipped  out  of  bed  to  peer  through  the 
blind.  She  could  see  a  window  of  the  library:  light 
was  sifting  from  between  its  heavy  curtains  —  her 
father  was  not  in  his  room,  then ;  he  was  there.  She 
thrust  her  feet  into  worsted  slippers,  threw  a  kimono 
over  her  nightgown  and  ran  quickly  down  the  stair. 

The  light  footfall,  the  whispering  rustle,  did  not 
reach  the  Judge.  He  was  unaware  of  the  girl  who 
had  paused  uncertainly  on  the  threshold.  His  mind 
was  arguing  the  final  phase  of  his  problem. 

What  he  purposed  would  cut  the  Gordian  knot, 
make  plain-sailing  for  others,  if  not  for  himself. 
He  would  have  rendered  no  decision  on  the  crucial 
case.  With  his  escape  the  problem  would  solve 
itself.  Craig  would  have  nothing  to  gain  then  in 
publishing  the  letter.  "Why  not?"  he  muttered. 
"  It  is  justifiable  —  it  is  neither  gross  nor  cowardly 
—  to  issue  one's-self  a  ticket  into  the  hereafter  in 
order  to  avert  shame  from  the  innocent  and  secure 
peace  to  those  one  loves !  "  His  wife  was  provided 
for.  His  elimination  from  her  equation  of  life,  he 
reflected  with  a  tinge  of  bitterness,  would  not  deeply 
disturb  her  even,  centred  existence.  Echo,  he 
thought  likely,  would  marry  Sevier.  And  Chilly  — 
of  what  earthly  use  was  his  life  to  Chilly  ?  "I  will 
do  it,"  he  said  to  himself.  He  stretched  out  his 
hand  —  toward  the  silver-mounted  revolver. 

But  he  drew  it  back.  A  further  clearer  concep- 
tion had  come  to  him  in  that  last  instant  to  give  him 
pause.  What,  after  all,  was  he  about  to  do  ?  Him- 


THE  HANDWRITING  ON  THE  WALL     129 

self  aside,  all  that  was  dearest  to  him  aside,  was 
not  the  act  he  contemplated  at  bottom  the  murder 
of  a  principle,  the  betrayal  of  a  trust  that  he  held 
for  the  State?  He  was  a  public  officer,  who  had 
taken  oath  in  the  presence  of  his  associates  worthily 
to  execute  the  functions  of  his  high  office,  to  do 
justice  and  fear  not.  For  him  the  sin  of  omission 
could  be  no  less  than  the  sin  of  commission.  Would 
such  a  shifty  suppression  of  his  decision  be  one  whit 
less  a  treason  than  the  rendering  of  a  mendacious 
one?  Either  equally  besmirched  his  honour! 
Something  deeper  in  him  than  dread  of  death,  deeper 
even  than  his  present  fear  of  life,  stirred  and 
throbbed.  No,  whatever  the  outcome,  no  matter 
what  it  held  for  him  and  his,  he  must  go  through 
with  it  to  the  bitter  end  1  He  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands. 

As  he  sat  thus  stirless,  the  sense  came  to  him  of 
another  presence  in  the  room.  Another's  breath 
seemed  to  enwrap  the  place  with  feeling.  He 
turned  his  head  and  saw  the  figure  in  the  doorway. 
"  Echo !  "  he  cried  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

She  came  to  him  quickly,  a  little  diffidently.  "  I 
couldn't  help  it,  dear !  I  felt  you  —  worrying,  and 
I  had  to  come."  Suddenly  her  eyes  fell  on  the  re- 
volver on  the  desk.  She  sprang  and  snatched  at  it 
in  panic.  "  That!  Oh,  not  that!  Not  that!  " 

"I  —  it  was  in  my  drawer,"  he  said.  "  Surely 
you—" 

"Ah,"   she   cried.     "I   know!     You  — you   re- 


130     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

ceived  a  letter  this  afternoon.  It  made  you  faint. 
You  haven't  been  yourself  since  you  read  it.  And 
now  you — " 

He  drew  a  shaking  hand  across  his  eyes.  "  No, 
dear,  "  he  said  more  steadily.  "  It  would  not  have 
been  —  what  you  think.  There  was  a  moment  when 
—  but  it  has  gone,  and  forever."  He  took  the  re- 
volver from  her  hand,  returned  it  to  the  drawer  and 
locked  it.  "  There,  "  he  said,  "  I  give  you  the  key. 
It  will  not  happen  now."  There  was  in  his  wailing 
speech  a  kind  of  hopeless  acquiescence  and  finality. 

Her  heart  was  beating  hard  with  a  painful  embar- 
rassment. "  Can  you  —  can't  you  tell  me  what  the 
letter  was?" 

He  looked  at  her  palely,  his  features  working. 
She  would  have  to  know  soon  enough,  yet  he  shrank 
with  a  fastidious  pain  from  telling  her.  What 
would  she  think  of  him?  "  Twenty  years  ago,  "  he 
said,  "  when  I  was  a  young  man,  I  wrote  an  —  an 
unwise  letter.  It  —  it  had  to  do  with  some  one 
who  died  the  year  it  was  written,  but  whose  memory 
I  —  I  treasure.  The  threat  is  made  now  to  publish 
it,  and  this  would  —  would  shame  and  harm  that 
memory  and  me." 

"Some  one  who  is  dead?"  she  repeated  bewil- 
dered. The  picture  her  fancy  had  painted  was  fad- 
ing out.  "  Then  how  — " 

"  The  old  letter  has  fallen  into  unfriendly  hands." 

"  And  it  must  come  back  to  hurt  you  —  to  spoil 
your  life  now!  Something  written  before  I  was 


He  turned  his  head  and  saw  the  figure  in  the  door- 
way.   "Echo !"  he  cried,  and  rose  to  his  feet 


THE  HANDWRITING  ON  THE  WALL     131 

born !  It  sha'n't!  It  sha'n't!  She  spoke  with  pas- 
sionate abandon,  her  words  struck  out  like  fire  from 
flint,  from  the  horror  of  the  knowledge  that  had 
sprung  to  her  at  sight  of  the  gleaming  thing  at  which 
she  had  snatched.  "  But  you  can  pay  the  price,  no 
matter  how  much  it  is !  Take  my  pearls  —  my 
rings  —  my  gowns." 

He  shook  his  head.  "It's  not  money:  what 
I  am  asked  to  pay  is  my  honour.  I  am  required  to 
alter  my  judicial  decision  on  the  Welles-Scott  case 
...  to  hand  down  a  legal  lie." 

She  looked  at  him  with  parted  lips.  "  The 
Welles-Scott  case !  " 

"  Yes.  Much  hangs  on  this  decision.  The  great 
corporate  interests  —  but  you  would  not  under- 
stand." 

She  threw  herself  beside  his  chair  and  knelt  close 
to  him.  A  great  compassion  was  welling  up  in  her, 
mingling  itself  with  deep  anger  at  the  cowardly  at- 
tack upon  him.  She  had  known  of  such  conscience- 
less warfare  in  political  life  —  acts  of  "  character 
assassins  "  which  knew  neither  pity  nor  honourable 
scruple.  "  Who  has  the  letter?  "  she  asked. 

"  Cameron  Craig.     It  came  with  his  card." 

She  started  violently.  Cameron  Craig!  He 
who  had  once  asked  her  to  marry  him,  who  had  as- 
serted his  love  for  her  —  he,  now  bent  on  her  fa- 
ther's ruin!  She  had  a  darting  memory  of  that 
heavy,  ruthless  jaw,  those  lowering,  determined  eyes. 
Cameron  Craig?  She  lifted  a  stricken  face. 


132      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

"  You  see !  "  he  said.  "  I  remember  you  once 
said  to  me  that  he  was  not  *  one  of  us.'  He  isn't. 
That  is  why  I  know  that  he  will  stop  at  nothing.  He 
will  do  what  he  threatens.  There  is  no  way  out." 

She  rose  to  her  feet.  Her  heart  was  beating  so 
that  her  breath  came  with  difficulty  and  a  mist  was 
before  her  eyes.  "  You  will  hand  down  the  deci- 
sion." It  was  a  statement,  not  a  question. 

"  God  help  me  —  I  must !  " 

"When?" 

"  A  week  from  to-day,  as  I  have  announced." 

She  leaned  and  put  her  arm  about  his  neck,  the 
key  of  the  drawer  still  clenched  in  her  cold  hand, 
and  kissed  him  on  the  forehead.  Even  in  that  numb 
moment  she  felt  a  certain  pride  that  he,  who  had 
known  a  passing  weakness,  was  yet,  in  this  crucial 
moment,  so  strong. 

"  You  must  go  back  to  bed  now,  "  he  said,  heavily 
"  You  are  going  to  your  aunt's  to-morrow,  aren't 
you  ?  " 

She  nodded,  her  cheek  still  against  his.  "  I  shall 
take  the  early  train,  before  you  are  up.  But  I  shall 
be  back  next  day." 

She  withdrew  her  arms.  "  Good  night,"  she 
half-whispered,  then  looked  at  the  locked  drawer. 
"  You  will  not  —  you  will  not  — " 

"  I  promise,"  he  said. 

"Whatever  happens?" 

"  Whatever  happens." 

An  instant  later  she  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE   ONLY   WAY 

AS  Echo  stood  once  more  in  the  dim  light  of 
her  blue- and- white  room,  it  seemed  to  her 
to  belong  to  some  blithe  past  life  which  she 
had  lived  long  ago  and  discarded  —  as  if  she  were 
suddenly  an  intruder  into  the  peace  and  quiet  it  en- 
folded.    For  though  her  hands  were  like  ice,  her 
veins  were  beating  hot  and  her  mind  was  filled  with 
the  heat  of  a  fiery  furnace. 

Cameron  Craig  held  her  father's  name,  his  career, 
his  whole  happiness,  and  that  of  them  all  —  her 
mother,  Chilly,  herself  —  in  his  hand.  His  was  the 
power  to  crush  and  to  ban.  This  man  had  pro- 
fessed to  love  her.  She  remembered  what  he  had 
said  to  her  that  day  in  the  garden  —  a  year  ago : 
"  Since  I  met  you  the  whole  world  has  been  changing 
for  me.  .  .  .  You  have  entered  into  my  blood  and 
my  brain,  and  the  want  of  you  has  coloured  all  I  have 
thought  and  done  .  .  .  Echo,  Echo !  "  The  words 
seemed  to  wreathe  about  her,  to  return  to  her 
in  pelted  reverberations  from  the  wall.  She  could 
save  the  situation.  She  could  marry  Cameron 
Craig. 

The  weird  thought  had  rushed  through  her  like  a 
133 


i34      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

cold  flame  with  the  voicing  of  that  name  in  the  li- 
brary. He  would  do  it.  More  than  the  decision, 
more  than  any  material  ambition,  he  desired  her. 
The  letter  —  and  the  photographic  plate  —  should 
be  the  price ! 

As  she  fought  with  herself  through  the  long  night 
hours,  distraught  yet  tearless,  it  came  to  her  with 
agonised  reiteration  that  the  resolve  marked  the  end 
for  her  of  all  that  makes  life  young.  Up  to  a  year 
ago  she  had  been  a  girl;  her  deeper  emotions  had 
been  unstirred,  her  soul  unknown  to  herself.  Only 
from  the  moment  at  the  "  Farm  "  when  she  had 
sent  Harry  Sevier  from  her  to  his  battle  with  appe- 
tite, had  she  known  the  real  meaning  of  life.  Since 
then  she  had  had  the  sweetness  of -learning  love's 
unfolding  in  denial,  and  that  very  day  it  had  come 
to  fruition.  Could  it  have  been  only  that  afternoon 
that  the  confession  had  trembled  on  his  lips,  when 
her  heart  had  seemed  to  beat  audibly,  like  little  songs 
of  joy?  Now  the  cup  was  dashed  from  her  lips. 
And  he  would  never  know  —  she  could  never  tell 
him!  That  was  the  deep  and  piteous  treason  to 
which  she  must  contribute ! 

She  crept  to  the  window  and  looked  out  over  the 
garden,  its  elfish  vapours  dimly  lighted  by  a  thin, 
silver  crescent-moon  that  seemed  hanging  like  a  gipsy 
ear-ring  from  a  swarthy  cloud.  Below  her  the  box- 
bordered  paths  showed  in  a  sunken  cross.  The  hem- 
lock in  its  centre,  with  its  triple  spires,  had  been 
brought,  a  tiny  seedling,  by  her  great-great-grand- 


THE  ONLY  WAY  135 

mother  from  White  Sulphur  Springs,  rooted  in  a 
gourd  tied  on  the  back  of  an  old  buff-coloured  coach. 
The  old  lady's  quaint  portrait  hung  still  in  the  dining- 
room,  just  above  the  diamond-leaded  cabinet  that 
held  the  tea-set  of  gold  and  lapiz  lazuli  blue,  from 
which  Jefferson  and  Randolph  had  drunk,  and  her 
garlanded  silver  basket  whose  inscription  read, 
"  From  a  lover  of  fifty  years  to  his  bride." 

Echo  felt  a  little  shiver  in  her  heart,  as  painful 
contrasting  pictures  thronged  before  her  disordered 
fancy  —  pictures  of  herself  as  Craig's  wife.  She 
saw  herself,  young  in  years  but  with  sere  joys  and 
blasted  ideals,  all  youth's  impulses  dead  in  her,  the 
wife  of  a  man  whose  bodily  presence  she  loathed  and 
whose  character,  even  before  this,  she  had  detested. 
A  chill  passed  through  her,  and  she  dropped  the  cur- 
tain and  shut  out  the  moonlight.  But  what  if  her 
father  stood  ruined,  the  mark  of  public  pity  and 
covert  sneers?  She  thought  of  the  pearl-handled 
revolver.  He  would  have  given  his  life  to  check- 
mate fate,  if  that  had  but  been  possible  to  him.  And 
she  was  his  daughter ! 

But  to  give  herself,  her  body,  her  soul  1  To  go  to 
this  man,  to  live  with  him,  to  bear  his  name  —  she 
shrank  from  the  thought  as  at  the  touch  of  white-hot 
iron. 

When  the  tiny  ormolu  clock  on  her  dressing-table 
struck  five  she  drew  up  the  blind.  Dawn,  with  its 
coral  sandals,  was  tiptoeing  over  the  garden,  hanging 


136     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

dew-diamonds  on  the  rose-bushes,  swinging  her 
censer  of  multifold  perfume  to  the  waking  flute  of 
the  birds.  She  bathed  her  face  and  smoothed  her 
hair,  then  put  on  a  dark  travelling  dress  and  packed 
a  small  bag,  putting  into  it  only  linen  and  a  few  toi- 
let-accessories, with  a  closed  silver  frame,  heart- 
shaped,  whose  twin  sides  held  miniatures  of  her 
father  and  mother.  Last  she  unlocked  a  tin  box  in 
her  drawer,  took  some  money  which  it  contained  and 
put  it  in  her  pocket.  Then,  bag  in  hand,  she  went 
downstairs. 

In  the  dining-room  Nelson  held  up  his  hands,  pink- 
lined  palms  outward. 

"  Mah  Goodness,  honey!"  he  ejaculated. 
"  Reck'n  yo'  didn'  sleep  'tall  las'  night,  what  wid 
Marse  Beve'ly  took  so  yistidy.  Yo'  look  jes'  lak  er 
ghos'.  Now  yo'  set  down  en  drink  some  hot  coffee 
en  eat  plenty  chick'n  en  waffles.  Ain'  gwine  find 
nuthin'  half  ez  good  on  dat  ar'  dinin'-cyah,  nohow  1  " 

The  warmth  of  the  coffee  was  grateful  to  her,  and 
while  the  old  man  hovered  about  her  she  made  a  pre- 
tence of  eating,  answering  his  protestations  with 
monosyllables,  in  fact  scarcely  knowing  what  she 
said,  for  her  mind  was  busy  with  other  things. 
'Lige,  the  driver,  would  wait  to  put  her  on  the  train 
—  she  must  take  the  up-train  then,  as  he  expected 
her  to  do.  And  it  was  an  express:  she  could  not 
leave  it  till  it  reached  the  junction,  hours  later. 
There,  however,  she  could  take  the  other  road  — 
the  Southern.  There  must  be  an  afternoon  train, 


THE  ONLY  WAY  137 

and  that,  though  by  a  round-about  way,  would  bring 
her  finally  to  her  destination. 

When  carriage-wheels  sounded  from  the  drive 
she  went  into  the  library  and  seated  at  her  father's 
desk,  wrote  a  note.  It  was  to  Harry  Sevier.  She 
sealed  and  addressed  it  with  a  hand  that  shook  a 
little,  and  gave  it  to  Nelson  with  instructions  to  send 
it  during  the  morning.  The  old  negro  put  her  into 
the  carriage,  with  her  bag  and  tucked  the  cover  about 
her  with  loving  hands. 

She  caught  a  breath,  uneven  like  a  child's. 
"  You'll  — take  good  care  of  father,  Nelson?  " 

"  Bress  yo'  li'l  ha'at,  ah'm  sho'  gwine  watch 
Marse  Beve'ly  lak  er  hawk.  He'll  be  all  right,  en 
yo'  be  back  termorrer." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  faintly. 

As  the  carriage  whirled  into  the  roadway,  she 
turned  her  head  to  cast  a  straining  gaze  up  the  silent 
drive  to  the  old  house.  Then  the  acacias  shut  it 
from  her  view. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

DERELICT 

IN  Harry  Sevier's  outer  office  his  clerk  glanced 
backward  with    a  startled  expression,  his  law- 
book    dropping    from    his    fingers.     "  That's 
queer,"  he  muttered.     "  I  never  heard  him  laugh 
like  that  before.     Doesn't  sound  like  a  joke,  some- 
how." 

He  rose  and  tapped  lightly  on  the  inner  door, 
which  he  had  closed  upon  his  employer  a  moment 
before.  But  there  was  no  response  and  he  went 
back  to  his  seat  —  and  the  volume  he  was  studying. 
"  Wonder  if  it  was  that  note  I  gave  him,"  he  spec- 
ulated. 

'  The  tap  had  fallen  on  deaf  ears.  Harry  was  sit- 
ting in  the  other  room,  rigidly  staring  at  the  note  in 
question.  There  was  on  him  a  feeling  of  actual 
physical  sickness.  He  did  not  know  that  he  had 
laughed.  At  last  he  rose,  and  crumpling  the  written 
sheet  into  a  ball,  laid  it  in  the  fire-place  and  struck  a 
match.  His  fingers  worked  clumsily  and  he  broke 
several  short  off  before  a  flame  showed  and  he 
stooped  painfully  and  held  the  match  to  its  edge. 
He  remained  in  the  crouching  posture  while  the  pa- 
per blazed  merrily  up.  In  the  charring  heat  it  crack- 
led and  opened,  showing  for  a  brief  instant  in  the 
138 


DERELICT  139 

baleful,  blackening,  light  two  sentences  it  had  con- 
tained: "  Think  as  gently  of  me  as  you  can.  I  can 
never  marry  you  —  never." 

He  stood  up  dazedly  and  groped  his  way  to  a 
chair.  So  this  was  the  end !  She,  Echo,  whom  he 
had  thought  so  true,  she  had  been  playing  with  him 
—  and  now  the  game  was  over.  To  her  he  had 
been  only  a  puppet,  a  card  in  hand  to  be  played  off, 
discarded  for  the  winning  of  the  greater  point. 
Poor,  brainless,  fool  that  he  was!  There  was  no 
longer  a  yesterday  —  no  dear  eyes  holding  his,  no 
Eden  wind  blowing  the  rose-petals  nor  silver  stars 
swinging  the  incense  of  the  gods !  He  had  been  liv- 
ing in  a  fairy-tale,  a  castle  in  Spain,  a  fool's  paradise, 
hugging  a  ridiculous  dream,  that  had  had  no  reality 
to  her,  had  been  but  a  chapter  of  coquetry,  to  which 
she  now  wrote  finis!  "  [Think  gently!  "  This  was 
the  epitaph  of  her  flirtation  with  Harry  Sevier  — 
flung  away,  raked  under,  thrust  from  sight,  a  thing 
for  the  scare-crow  and  the  scavenger ! 

He  got  up  and  going  slowly  to  the  window,  stood 
many  minutes  with  his  forehead  against  the  pane. 

What  remained  for  him?  To  sweep  out  of  his 
life  the  shards  of  that  beautiful  thing  that  lay  de- 
stroyed forever?  To  saunter  on,  with  hypocritical 
smirk  and  affected  nonchalance,  down  the  empty  de- 
clivity of  professional  habit,  to  an  undesirable  goal? 
To  what  end?  Of  what  value  had  been  his  striving? 
A  year  ago  he  might  have  won  her  —  no  one  else  had 
had  more  than  a  slight  hold  upon  her  then.  It  had 


i4o      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

been  that  long  denial  that  he  had  set  himself  that 
had  undone  him!  What  profit  to  him  that  he  had 
won  the  mastery  over  himself,  had  cut  the  tentacle 
coils  that  were  enwinding  him?  Of  what  had  been 
the  use? 

There  darted  through  his  racked  mind  the  sorry 
jingle  that  Chilly  had  once  roared  in  his  rooms : 

"  Money  is  dross, 

Loving  is  loss, 
There's  never  a  crown  that  is  worth  its  cross. 

Life  is  a  toss, 

Dying  is  moss, 
But  booze  —  Oh,  bully  old  booze,  is  boss!  " 

Why  not  "  cut  it  all,"  as  Chilly  had  longed  to  do  ? 
Plunge  out  along  the  numb,  reckless  way  whose  well- 
remembered  mile-stones  suddenly  beckoned  him  — 
anyhow,  anywhere,  only  to  muffle  the  pain  that 
plucked  at  him  —  to  sodden  and  sink  himself  in 
blessed  oblivion,  like  a  stone  in  a  pool ! 

A  thing  that  had  lain  torpid  and  dormant  in  the 
dregs  of  his  being  thrust  up  its  head.  It  was  as 
though  a  chain  snapped  in  his  brain,  and  what  had 
been  shackled  there  reared,  savage  and  exultant. 
On  the  desk  sat  a  photograph  in  a  silver  frame. 
Once  he  had  been  used  to  turn  this  face-down  when 
that  cabinet  was  opened  a  year  ago!  He  picked 
this  up  and  with  a  sudden  wrench  of  his  powerful 
fingers  bent  and  broke  it  across  again  and  again, 
crushing  metal  and  board  into  a  shapeless  battered 
twist,  and  flung  it  into  the  fireplace.  He  snatched  up 


DERELICT  141 

a  heavy  paper-weight  and  with  one  blow  smashed  in 
the  door  of  the  little  wall-cabinet.  The  glass  fell  in 
a  shower  of  silvery  tinkles  to  the  floor.  He  seized 
the  black  bottle  that  sat  there  —  with  the  rusty  gob- 
let —  poured  the  latter  to  the  brim  and  drank  it  off 
—  once,  twice,  three  times. 

He  went  into  the  main  office.  Its  occupant  was 
on  his  feet  in  alarm  at  the  crash  of  shattered  glass  in 
the  next  room.  "  How  much  money  is  there  on  the 
premises?  " 

The  clerk  looked  in  a  drawer.  "  About  sixty 
dollars.  It's  the  last  payment  on  — " 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  said  Sevier  shortly.  He  pock- 
eted the  wad  of  bills  the  other  handed  him.  "  I'm 
going  on  a  journey  —  abroad,"  he  said.  "I  may 
be  gone  some  time  —  in  fact,  I  know  I  shall.  Don't 
forward  anything,  and  close  up  the  office  till  I  return. 
You  will  draw,  as  usual,  of  course."  In  another 
moment  he  was  giving  directions  —  over  the  com- 
plaisant wire  —  to  his  bank.  He  had  always  kept 
his  leisure  clear  by  putting  the  small  details  of  daily 
routine  book-keeping,  as  he  expressed  it  "  on  the 
other  fellow  " ;  however  long  his  desertion,  rent  and 
camp-followers  should  be  paid  with  regularity. 

Ten  minutes  later  his  valet,  in  a  suit  of  spotless 
white  linen,  let  him  into  his  apartment. 

"  I'm  off  for  a  vacation,  Suzuki,"  he  said.  "  To- 
night, when  Bob  comes  for  orders,  tell  him  to  put 
the  car  up  till  I  want  it.  You  can  go  to  night-school 
and  rub  up  your  *  Yingleesh.'  " 


I42     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

The  Japanese  blinked.  "  A'right,"  he  said. 
"  When  we  see  you  some  more?  " 

"  When  I  get  back."  Sevier  lifted  a  book  from 
the  table.  "Take  this  to  Mr.  Treadwell's  —  his 
house,  not  his  office  —  you  understand.  There's  no 
message ;  it  belongs  to  him.  Don't  wait ;  go  at  once." 

When  he  had  closed  the  outer  door  on  the  valet, 
Harry  drew  a  long  breath.  He  opened  another 
door  and  listened.  He  could  hear  Aunt  Judy  rat- 
tling crockery  in  the  kitchen,  humming  as  she  la- 
boured. He  would  be  undisturbed,  the  coast  was 
clear.  His  veins  were  beating  hot  now  with  the 
brandy,  and  the  sickness  was  gone.  In  the  old  days 
the  reaction  had  been  slow  and  grudging.  But  dur- 
ing the  year  his  body  had  refreshed  itself.  The  in- 
ured crust  of  usage  was  stripped  away,  and  the  phys- 
ical side  responded  speedily. 

He  went  into  his  dressing-room  and  threw  open 
the  huge  walnut  wardrobe  that  effaced  one  wall.  It 
was  hung  from  end  to  end  with  clothing.  He  se- 
lected a  cheap  dun-coloured  suit  which  he  had  pur- 
chased abroad  years  before  for  a  walking-tour,  of 
whose  strenuous  occupations  it  showed  some  traces 
in  wear,  a  flannel  shirt  and  a  slouch  hat,  companion 
of  sundry  long-ago  fishing  excursions.  He  took  a 
nail-scissors  and  painstakingly  cut  from  each  article 
its  maker's  name.  In  the  bath-room,  first  with 
shears  and  then  with  a  razor,  he  cut  off  his  crisp 
dark  beard:  never,  since  his  college  days  abroad, 
had  he  seen  his  own  face  like  that. 


DERELICT  143 

Finally  arrayed,  he  regarded  himself  in  the 
cheval-glass.  The  Harry  Sevier  of  sumptuous  ap- 
parel and  perfect  grooming,  the  familiar  spirit  of 
the  place,  was  gone.  In  his  stead  there  stood  an  un- 
familiar presence,  with  smooth-shaven  chin  and 
knock-about  clothing.  And  the  stranger  looked 
from  the  depths  of  the  mirror  with  a  gaze  from 
which  something  tempered  and  remorseful  had  van- 
ished, a  gaze  of  avid  recklessness  and  strange,  ir- 
responsible daring,  the  look  of  one  standing  on  the 
sheer  verge  of  any  hazard,  welcoming  any  throw  of 
the  dice,  fearing  nothing  and  caring  nothing. 

As  he  stood,  his  hand  encountered  a  small  hard 
object  in  his  pocket.  He  drew  it  out.  It  was  a 
ring,  roughly  made  and  holding  an  uncut  emerald 
almost  square  in  shape.  He  remembered  that  once, 
in  the  woods,  he  had  bought  it  for  a  whim  from  some 
gipsy  caravan  —  a  luck  ring.  Much  luck  it  had 
brought  him!  Well,  it  was  the  gipsy-road  now  for 
him.  He  drew  off  his  seal  ring  and  thrust  the  other 
on  his  finger  in  its  place. 

He  went  quickly  out  the  front  door  and  down  to 
the  entrance  pulling  his  hat  brim  well  over  his  eyes 
on  issuing  to  the  street.  As  he  did  so  he  grazed  a 
lady  leisurely  passing.  It  was  the  plump  and 
pretty  Mrs.  Spottiswoode.  Her  glance  met  his 
fairly,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  recognition;  she  only 
drew  her  trim,  modish  skirt  away  from  the  contact 
as  she  passed  on. 

He  walked  more  rapidly  now.     He  could  scarce 


144     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

keep  from  running  —  would  have  done  so  but  for 
the  thronging  crowds.  The  brandy  he  had  drunk 
in  the  office  had  roused  the  devil  of  craving;  it  was 
in  his  throat  now  like  the  rasp  of  hot  sand-paper  and 
he  craved  more  alcohol  with  a  desperate  craving 
that  would  not  be  denied.  At  the  edge  of  the  open 
square  which  held  the  railroad  station  he  plunged 
into  a  saloon  and  pushed  through  its  groups  of 
loungers  to  the  bar. 

"A  flask  of  whisky  —  the  best  you  have,"  he 
said. 

The  bar-tender  wiped  his  hands  on  his  duck  jacket 
and  took  down  a  squat  bottle.  "  O.  and  S.,"  he  said, 
affably.  "  Just  blown  in  to  town?  " 

Harry  stared  him  in  the  eye.  "  Wrap  that  thing 
up,  and  be  quick  about  it!  "  was  his  answer. 

The  man  in  the  duck  jacket  muttered  something 
under  his  breath,  banged  the  package  on  the  bar  and 
rang  up  the  payment  on  the  cash-register  with  an 
angry  jingle. 

Harry  thrust  his  purchase  under  his  arm,  went 
out,  crossed  the  square  and  climbed  aboard  a  train 
that  was  drawing  out.  He  went  rapidly  forward  to 
the  smoker;  there  he  —  and  the  bottle  he  carried  — 
would  be  unnoticed.  As  he  sat  down  in  the  rear 
seat,  the  conductor  passed  by.  Harry  had  no  ticket. 
He  handed  him  a  bill. 

"  Where  to?  "  asked  the  other  briefly. 

"  How  far  do  you  go?  " 

"  Birmingham." 


DERELICT  145 

"  To  Birmingham,  then,"  said  Harry. 

The  afternoon  wore  on,  station  after  station  went 
by.  The  man  in  the  rear  seat  sat  with  his  eyes 
straight  before  him,  moveless  except  as  from  time  to 
time  he  lifted  a  bottle  to  his  lips  and  drank  thirstily, 
avidly.  The  frenzied  pain  was  gone  now,  leaving 
only  a  dull  ache,  and  gradually,  very  gradually,  this 
too  slipped  away  into  the  void.  He  was  now  once 
more  the  man  who  had  fled  in  his  motor  from  the 
face  of  a  convict  in  a  court-room,  flying  through  the 
night  in  a  jumbled  dream,  strung  upon  a  headlong 
speed  through  vacuity. 

Evening  came,  with  the  glamour  of  peach-blown 
valleys  and  honey-lipped  hills,  lying  under  pale  stars 
against  the  sunset.  Night  fell,  with  its  cooler  breeze 
through  the  windows,  its  glimpses  of  quiet,  watching 
woods,  of  white  mists  wreathing  across  the  meadows, 
of  yellow  lights.  But  Harry  took  no  heed.  Only 
hours  later,  when  the  train  rolled  into  a  great  ro- 
tunda did  he  turn  his  head.  He  did  not  know  where 
he  was.  He  did  not  even  wonder.  He  rose, 
kicked  the  emptied  bottle  under  the  seat,  and  left  the 
train. 

He  went  out  of  the  station.  It  sat  on  a  ridge 
above  a  great  river  and  on  the  lower  level  he  had  a 
glimpse  of  a  sordid  purlieus  of  rambling  streets,  red- 
paned  windows  and  gleaming  doorways,  the  soiled 
earmarks  of  the  city's  slums. 

He  crossed  the  street  and  plunged  aimlessly  down 
a  narrow  alley  toward  the  water-front. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

LIKE   A   THIEF   IN   THE   NIGHT 

THE  potations  in  the  smoking-car  had  had 
their  first  effect.  Sevier  had  passed  from 
the  jumbled  dream  now  —  was  safe  enisled 
in  that  strange  fourth-dimentional  empire  into  which 
he  had  first  wandered  during  that  wild  night-ride  in 
his  motor,  that  region  of  tense  consciousness  that 
was  yet  without  rule,  in  which  every  sense  was  acute, 
his  brain  clear  as  ice,  but  where  impressions  recorded 
themselves  without  co-ordination.  Eye  and  ear 
drank  in  avidly  each  sight  and  sound,  and  he  sniffed 
the  thick  smells  as  a  hound  sniffs  a  haunting  but  for- 
gotten trail. 

As  he  went  further  the  dwindling  signs  of  re- 
spectability vanished.  He  was  now  below  the  city's 
"  dead-line  "  where,  in  segregated  wantonness,  vice 
and  license  unrolled  their  audacities  fearless  of  the 
complaisant  police  regulations. 

A  hundred  yards  from  the  greasy  docks  lining  the 
sluggish  current  from  which  a  plumy  mist  was  lifting, 
a  wide  screened  doorway  showed  a  blaze  of  electric- 
light  upon  a  patch  of  saw-dust  floor.  Through  it 
poured  the  tinny  blare  of  a  gramophone  hooting  a 
comic  song,  mingled  with  rumbling  laughter  and 
raised  voices.  It  was  a  low-roofed,  shambling  build- 
146 


LIKE  A  THIEF  IN  THE  NIGHT     147 

ing,  planned  for  the  delectation  of  the  barge-man  and 
the  roustabout  and  now  throbbing  with  their  daily  — 
and  nightly  —  pleasures.  Harry  halted  before  it. 

"  Tough  joint,  eh?  "  The  voice  fell  suddenly  at 
his  elbow. 

He  turned.  The  speaker  was  red-cheeked  and 
brisk,  with  dapper  sophistication  and  inquisitiveness 
written  all  over  him.  His  shining  straw  hat  had  a 
coloured  band,  there  were  white  pearl  buttons  on  his 
patent-leather  shoes  and  a  natty  stick  swung  lightly 
from  his  gloved  fingers.  "  I  can  see  you  don't  be- 
long with  that  crowd,"  he  said,  nodding  sagely 
toward  the  entrance. 

"  No,"  said  Sevier.  He  was  staring  at  the 
speaker  with  a  penetrating  intensity,  thinking  that, 
but  for  colouring  and  costume,  they  two  some- 
what resembled  each  other  —  speculating  as  to  the 
slanting  scar  on  the  other's  right  cheek,  that  might 
have  been  the  memento  of  a  rusty  nail  or  of  a  pet 
panther  —  thinking  of  these  things  and  of  a  thou- 
sand things  beside  that  were  only  remotely  con- 
nected with  either  of  them. 

"  Neither  do  I,  but  I  take  a  high  dive  into  it  now 
and  then.  Let's  go  in  and  have  a  drink." 

In  Harry's  middle  distance  another  more  de- 
corous swing-door  vibrated  to  and  fro,  with  a  sharp 
smell  of  hops,  a  rattle  of  glasses,  a  voice  reckless  but 
good-humoured  —  proposing  a  like  libation.  Be- 
yond this  in  endless  succession  were  openings  and  re- 
openings  of  a  locked  cabinet  that  had  hung  some- 


148      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

where  on  a  wall,  and  further  yet,  myriads  of  goblets, 
cut  with  shining  prisms,  reflecting  rainbow  colours  on 
spotless  napery.  A  drink? 

"  Why  not?  "  he  said,  and  striking  open  the  door, 
led  the  way  into  the  noisy  interior,  reeking  with  stale 
odours,  with  strong  tobacco-smoke,  with  carouse 
and  profanity.  He  strode  across  the  floor,  shoul- 
dering his  way  unceremoniously  through  the  press, 
and  sat  down  at  a  small  deal  table  that  was  unoccu- 
pied. His  companion  seated  himself  opposite.  He 
was  looking  at  Harry  with  critical  admiration,  noting 
his  lithe  athletic  build  and  the  certain,  confident 
swing  of  his  movements.  His  eye  lighted. 

"  Gad!  "  he  said,  with  a  little  laugh.  "  To  tell 
the  truth  I  wouldn't  have  cared  to  come  in  here  alone, 
though  I've  been  in  a  good  many  shady  boozeries. 
Allow  me  to  introduce  myself.  My  name's  John 
Stark  —  that's  the  name  I  play  under,  that  is.  I'm 
an  actor.  I'm  trying  out  a  new  play,  the  {  Jail-bird.' 
Perhaps  you've  seen  the  bill-boards." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Harry.  The  title  sprang  in- 
stantly into  his  mind,  blazoned  on  a  gaudy  bill-board 
against  a  maple-shaded  street: 

"  Do  not  fail  to  see  this  Talented  Star 
In  his  Gripping  Drama,  The  Jail-Bird." 

It  multiplied,  stamping  itself  on  a  thousand  walls, 
a  chromatic  procession  tumbling  into  the  distance. 
The  other  nodded  in  a  self-satisfied  way.     "  It's  a 


LIKE  A  THIEF  IN  THE  NIGHT     149 

great  play.  Got  the  real  human  dope  in  it.  It'll 
go  big,  too.  That's  why  I  come  to  these  places  —  to 
study  '  business.'  See  that  teamster  with  the  pock- 
marked face  and  the  tattoo  on  his  arm?  What  a 
make-up  that  would  be !  " 

The  burly,  half-drunken  driver,  in  red-flannel 
shirt  with  a  snake-whip  in  his  armpit,  his  back  to  the 
bar,  poured  from  a  gurgling  black  bottle.  "  Hear 
what  it  says?"  he  hiccoughed  —  "  *  It's  good  — 
s'good  —  s'good  —  s'good  —  s'good !  ' ' 

John  Stark  withdrew  his  eyes  from  the  fascinating 
study,  as  a  waiter,  in  an  apron  that  had  in  some  re- 
mote epoch  aspired  to  white,  with  a  strip  of  soiled 
towelling  thrown  over  one  arm,  set  two  thick  glasses 
on  the  table,  with  a  surly  "  well?  " 

"  I'll  take  a  silver  fizz,"  said  the  actor. 

"  The  same,"  said  Sevier  —  "  and  be  quick  about 
it!" 

The  harsh  admonition  thrust  across  the  noise. 
The  phrase  had  no  meaning  to  Sevier,  it  had  been 
merely  the  echo  of  another  bidding  that  he  had  given 
at  some  other  time,  in  some  other  world,  repeating 
itself  now  when  the  hidden  spring  of  association  was 
touched.  But  it  brought  a  resentful  glare  from  the 
waiter.  The  loungers  standing  nearest  shuffled  truc- 
ulently, and  the  teamster  by  the  bar  turned  an  ugly 
look  upon  them.  The  man  in  the  dingy  apron 
thumped  down  a  black  demijohn  on  the  table. 

"  Take  it  straight  or  not  at  all,"  he  said  in  a  surly 
tone. 


150     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

Harry's  companion  poured  both  glasses.  He 
leaned  across  the  table  with  sparkling  eyes.  "  I'm 
in  the  title-role,"  he  confided.  "  [The  story  is  like 
this.  I'm  a  business  man,  and  the  other  chap  —  he 
has  a  grudge  against  me  —  has  me  in  his  power. 
He's  the  Great  What  Ho  —  a  regular  top-notcher, 
plenty  of  money,  a  winner  with  the  women,  horses, 
steam-yacht,  everything.  The  house  he  lives  in  was 
mine,  but  he's  got  it  by  trickery  and  seized  it  while 
I  was  abroad.  I  come  back  and  find  him  in  pos- 
session. But  in  the  house  —  he  doesn't  know  this, 
you  see  —  hidden  behind  a  panel  in  the  library,  are 
papers  that  will  show  him  up  and  put  him  behind  the 
bars.  I've  got  to  have  those  papers,  and  the  only 
way  is  to  get  into  the  place  and  take  them." 

He  paused  and  sipped  from  the  glass  before  him, 
then  resumed : 

"  Curious  thing,  luck.  I've  had  no  end  of  trouble 
getting  up  the  scenery,  but  to-day  I  saw  exactly  the 
lay-out  I  want  to  picture  —  a  whacking  big  house  in 
this  very  town.  Right  in  the  heart  of  the  city  too, 
not  a  mile  from  here,  but  shut  in  from  the  road.  Be- 
longs to  about  the  richest  man  in  the  place.  I  ko- 
daked it  for  my  scene-painter.  Look  here." 

He  took  a  pencil  from  his  pocket  and  sketched 
rapidly  on  the  deal  table-tap  as  he  went  on. 

"  It's  set  in  trees  and  there's  a  wide,  oval  porch 
along  the  front  —  like  this  —  fine  old  southern  ef- 
fect, eh?  —  with  Cape  Jessamine  bushes  under  the 
windows.  A  long  wing  runs  down  one  side  —  here. 


LIKE  A  THIEF  IN  THE  NIGHT     151 

In  there  is  the  library.  1  come  on  in  a  kind  of  pro- 
logue, no  lines  —  shadows  and  moonlight,  town-hall 
clock  striking  off  one  side  —  you  know.  I'm  des- 
perate. I  try  the  doors.  They're  locked,  of  course. 
But  there's  a  little  window  on  the  second  floor  that's 
open.  I  climb  up  a  trellis  and  crawl  in.  There  I 
am  in  the  house." 

He  stopped  and  emptied  his  glass. 

"There's  a  two-minute  dark  —  no  curtain,  but  a 
quick  change,  then  lights  up  and  the  stage  shows  the 
Great  What  Ho's  library,  with  me  on  the  threshold, 
for  the  opening  scene.  I  get  the  papers  from  the 
panel,  and  just  then  — " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Harry.  He  had  been  staring 
steadily  at  the  other  *—  staring  with  his  outer  eyes, 
but  with  that  curious  inner  vision,  which  was  the 
gift  of  the  intoxicant  he  had  drunk,  seeing  himself, 
detached  and  moving  through  the  significant  scene 
that  was  being  sketched  before  him,  his  alert  but 
liquor-bound  mind  filling  in  strange,  lurid  detail 
which  rushed  forward  to  crowd  the  obscure  spaces. 
He  reached  forward  and  gripped  the  actor  by  the 
arm  with  a  force  that  made  him  wince  — "  and 
then—" 

A  stillness  had  struck  the  noisier  babble  and 
Harry's  mental  connectidfc  on  a  sudden  broke.  A 
young  woman  in  the  red  Jersey  and  poke-bonnet  of 
the  Salvation  Army  had  passed  about  the  room  and 
was  now  standing  by  the  table.  She  stretched  her 
tambourine.  "  If  you  please,  gentlemen,"  she  said. 


152      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

Harry  laid  a  silver  half-dollar  in  her  tambourine 
and  his  companion  did  the  same,  when  the  waiter 
who  had  served  them  spoke  to  her:  "  Clear  out, 
you.  You've  got  your  money,  now  go." 

"  And  be  quick  about  it!  "  said  Harry,  distinctly. 

The  remark  had  not  the  excuse  of  proprietorship 
and  it  roused  fury  in  the  sluggish  minds  about  them 
to  whom  the  addition  was  extraneous  and  gratuitous, 
a  smug  insult  of  one  who  from  his  manner  belonged 
to  a  class  that  despised  them,  offered  to  one  whose 
daily  habit  proved  that  she  did  not.  With  an  oath 
the  drunken  teamster  of  the  pock-marked  visage 
lurched  forward,  rolling  a  red-flannel  sleeve  along  a 
hairy  biceps. 

The  dingy  Ganymede  thrust  him  back.  "  Leave 
him  to  me ! "  he  ground  savagely,  and  turning, 
struck  at  Harry  with  envenomed  force. 

The  fist,  however,  did  not  reach  home.  Harry's 
brain  and  eye  were  working  with  the  deadly  preci- 
sion of  the  practised  athlete.  The  suggestion  of 
combat  was  complete,  and  with  sober  caution  and 
reason  dead,  the  bodily  mechanism  rushed  to  meet  it. 
There  was  a  lightning-like  parry  —  a  crisp,  smash- 
ing return  blow.  Then  suddenly  the  room  turned  a 
shambles,  a  red  surging  mass  of  hands  that  tore,  of 
thrown  missiles,  of  shattering  glass,  through  which 
sounded  a  shrill  whistle  and  the  tattoo  of  a  thorn- 
baton  on  the  pavement  outside. 

Two  minutes  later  Harry  stood  unhurt  in  the  open 
air,  and  a  blue-jacket  held  the  door  against  a  cursing 


LIKE  A  THIEF  IN  THE  NIGHT     153 

pandemonium.  "  Run,  you  fool!  "  he  panted.  "  I 
can't  hold  it  but  a  minute.  Run!  " 

And  Harry  ran.  Not  from  fear  or  dread,  but 
in  instant  response  to  that  mental  spur,  without  rea- 
son, or  logic,  or  conscious  thought.  The  new  mental 
formula  for  the  present  moment  superseded  the  old. 
The  dingy  saloon,  the  effervescent  young  Thespian, 
the  fight  —  all  fell  away,  were  gone,  and  there  was 
only  the  rigid  empty  calm  through  which  he  sped, 
and  far  above  him  the  sound  of  a  wind  like  a  silken 
sea.  It  was  close  on  midnight,  the  more  decorous 
streets  into  which  he  presently  emerged  deserted,  for 
intermittent  clouds  were  now  blotting  the  moonlight 
and  a  sprinkle  of  rain  was  falling.  The  sparse 
pedestrians  stared  or  shrank  away,  but  none  fol- 
lowed, no  patrolling  guardian  of  the  law  forbade. 
He  ran  without  direction  or  purpose,  until  suddenly 
—  he  halted. 

He  had  come  to  the  side  of  a  great  enclosure,  the 
grounds  of  a  mansion,  surrounded  by  a  high  stone 
wall  with  tiled  top,  in  which  was  set  a  gate  with  tall 
posts  holding  dim-lit  yellow  globes.  It  was  not  at 
these,  however,  that  Harry  was  looking;  his  gaze 
went  beyond,  where,  touched  by  the  rainy  moonlight, 
stretched  the  long  fagade  of  a  Colonial  house  with 
a  wide  oval  porch.  At  one  side  was  a  wing,  with 
a  lattice  climbing  over  its  doorway,  and  the  damp  air 
was  full  of  the  scent  of  jessamine. 

He  stiffened.  The  contours  fell  with  fateful  cor- 
respondence over  another  picture  which  had  been 


154      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

etched  on  his  brain  that  night  with  the  sharp  outlines 
of  a  photographic  plate.  The  old  spring  had  been 
touched,  and  the  eerie  mechanism  was  responding. 
It  was  his  own  house,  but  now  it  sheltered  the  Great 
What  Ho,  and  in  that  wing  was  hidden  the  thing 
he  must  secure  for  his  own  salvation ! 

Harry  entered  the  gate  and  crept  across  the  lawn, 
warily,  from  bush  to  bush.  In  the  curious  dual- 
consciousness  that  seemed  to  divide  his  self  into  two 
independent  yet  identic  entities,  he  had  no  sensation 
of  strangeness  that  he  should  already  have  made 
that  slinking  journey  once  before,  that  each  detail 
should  possess  the  quality  of  predestination.  In  the 
shadow  of  the  ivied  walls  he  softly  tried  the  front 
door.  It  was  locked,  but  he  had  known  it  would 
be.  He  looked  up;  he  had  known  what  he  should 
see  —  the  small  window  in  the  wing,  open,  as  he 
could  see  from  the  swaying  of  the  light  curtain  in 
the  air. 

He  crept  to  the  lattice  and  deftly  and  softly  drew 
himself  up.  No  twig  snapped,  scarce  a  leaf  rustled 
beneath  his  careful  movements.  In  a  moment  he 
touched  the  sill  of  the  open  window  and  slid  inside. 

He  was  in  an  upper  hall  and  soft,  luxurious  carpet 
was  under  his  feet.  By  the  dim  light  from  the  win- 
dow he  crept  noiselessly  down  the  stair.  There 
before  him  stood  the  door  behind  which  lay  the  thing 
he  must  have.  He  put  his  hand  on  the  knob,  turned 
it  softly  and  opened  the  door. 

The  mental  picture  which  he  had  been  tracing  sud- 


LIKE  A  THIEF  IN  THE  NIGHT     155 

denly  frayed  and  vanished  like  a  dissolving  view. 
The  room  was  brightly  lighted.  At  one  side  sat 
a  great  safe,  beside  whose  steel  door  stood  two  men, 
one  tall  and  thin,  whose  eyes  glittered  through  the 
holes  of  a  black  cambric  mask,  the  other  short  and 
stocky  with  red-rimmed  eyes  and  a  shock  of  sand- 
coloured  hair. 

They  stood  like  setters  at  point,  crouching  tensely 
forward,  and  the  latter  held  a  pistol  levelled  at  him. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   PRICE 

WITH  the  sudden  disintegration  of  the  men- 
tal picture  he  had  been  tracing,  and  the 
instant  stoppage  of  the  tense  action  of 
mind  and  body,  Harry  Sevier  came  to  himself.  He 
awoke  as  he  had  done  on  the  night  of  the  trial, 
with  the  abrupt  halt  of  his  motor  at  the  railroad- 
crossing —  awoke  instantly  to  knowledge  of  himself, 
but  dazed  and  shaken,  grasping  at  phantasmagoric 
fragments  that  were  swiftly  dissolving  in  his  brain, 
in  a  bewilderment  in  which  he  could  only  stare  voice- 
lessly  at  the  black  mask  that  confronted  him,  at  the 
round  muzzle  that  spelled  danger. 

The  man  of  the  sand-coloured  hair  spoke :  "  It 
ain't  him,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  Not  one  of  the 
servants,  either."  He  stepped  forward.  "  How 
did  you  get  in?  " 

"  I  don't  —  know,"  said  Harry.  "  Yes,  I  — 
I  fancy  it  was  through  a  window." 

"What  did  you  come  for?" 

"  I  wanted  to  —  get  something." 

There  was  an  instant's  pause.  Then  his  ques- 
tioner came  forward  with  a  cat-like  tread.  His  free 
hand  busied  itself  in  deft  exploration.  "  No  gun  on 
him,"  he  said. 

156 


THE  PRICE  157 

Something  like  a  chuckle  came  from  behind  the 
mask.  u  I  reckon  he's  telling  the  truth,  but  he's 
a  new  one  and  we  scared  about  all  out  of  his  head 
there  ever  was  in  it!  " 

The  other  turned  one  side  to  where  a  heavy  por- 
tiere screened  an  alcove,  parted  the  curtains  and  set 
a  chair  in  the  hidden  space.  He  pointed  to  it.  "  Sit 
there,"  he  gruffly  commanded,  and  to  the  man  in 
the  mask  he  added,  "  Get  on  with  your  part  of  the 
job.  We  won't  take  no  risks  —  I'll  take  care  of 
him!" 

Harry  sat  down.  The  dream-like  fragments  at 
which  he  had  been  grasping  were  gone  now  into 
thin  air,  and  out  of  the  misty  limbo  the  past  was 
growing  back :  the  note  he  had  received,  the  smashed 
wall-cabinet,  the  fiery  drink  that  scorched  his  throat, 
his  mad  masquerade,  the  boarding  of  the  train  at 
the  station,  the  friendly,  stupifying  flash,  then  flight, 
on  and  on  —  and  then,  this  lighted  room,  the  safe, 
the  levelled  weapons!  Into  what  sordid  drama  of 
the  under-world  had  he  wandered? 

He  flinched  at  the  pressure  of  a  cold  steel  ring 
against  his  temple  —  the  man  with  the  sand-col- 
oured hair  was  "  taking  care  "  of  him.  The  latter 
leaned  forward  and  peered  searchingly  into  his  face. 
"Haven't  I  seen  you  before,  somewheres?"  he 
asked. 

"  Who  knows?  "  said  Harry.  He  had  answered 
that  look  by  one  that,  even  as  he  spoke,  had  opened 
to  strange  intelligence.  The  stocky  frame,  the 


158      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

small  red-rimmed  eyes,  the  up-thrust,  wiry  hair  be- 
longed to  his  client  of  that  far  away  trial,  the  man 
whom  he  had  sent  to  a  convict's  cell  and  who  now, 
by  route  of  ball  and  stripe,  had  fled  to  the  dismal 
demesne  of  habitual  criminality!  "Who  knows!  " 
Paddy  the  Brick  had  not  now  the  piteous,  shrinking 
look  that  had  been  turned  to  his  counsel  in  the  court- 
room! The  manhood  was  gone  from  the  mottled 
features,  which  now  wore  the  furtive  look  of  the 
hunted,  the  sign-manual  of  cunning,  incorrigibility 
and  debauch. 

Paddy  the  Brick  withdrew  his  eyes.  The  invol- 
untary question  had  passed.  There  was,  after  all, 
little  in  the  smooth-shaven  countenance  of  the  man 
he  guarded  to  suggest  a  bearded  face  that  his  mem- 
ory searched  for. 

"  Quiet !  "  warned  the  man  in  the  mask,  and  kneel- 
ing by  the  safe  door,  resumed  the  delicate  manipu- 
lation which  had  been  so  startlingly  interrupted.  He 
turned  the  combination  swiftly  and  deftly,  his  side- 
face  pressed  against  the  unyielding  steel,  his  ear 
listening  intently  to  the  fall  of  the  tumblers  that 
chattered  like  elfin  castenets. 

Harry  sat  silent  and  moveless,  sharply  conscious 
of  the  cold  ring  against  his  temple.  Whither  had 
his  besotted  flight  carried  him?  To  some  distant 
city,  into  another  state  perhaps,  where  he  now  fig- 
ured in  a  coarse  and  desperate  adventure  that  might 
end  anywhere,  in  some  shameful  expose  which  he 
could  not  foresee.  In  whose  house  was  he  ?  Whose 


THE  PRICE  159 

money  was  it  these  nightly  prowlers  intended  ?  And 
what  ironic  demon  had  beckoned  him  here  to  play 
this  passive  part  in  the  despoiling? 

There  was  suddenly  a  sharp  click,  a  turn  of  the 
nickelled  handle,  and  on  mute  hinges  the  safe-door 
opened.  "  So !  "  said  the  man  in  the  mask,  com- 
placently. He  began  to  pull  open  drawers  and  ran- 
sack pigeon-holes,  his  fingers  passing  deftly  through 
the  papers  they  contained. 

On  the  instant  there  was  a  muffled  sound  in  the 
hall  outside  —  a  door  swinging  to,  and  voices. 

"S-s-sf"  The  low  hiss  was  an  incarnate  men- 
ace. The  man  by  the  safe  swung  the  steel  door 
to,  but  without  closing  its  lock,  and  snapped  off  the 
lights.  The  room  fell  into  thick  darkness.  Harry 
felt,  rather  than  heard,  that  the  other  had  swiftly 
entered  the  alcove,  and  drawn  the  portiere  into  place. 
His  companion  had  made  no  sound,  but  the  aching 
circlet  bit  hard  again  into  Harry's  temple,  with  a 
warning  as  sharp  as  it  was  silent. 

The  door  opened,  there  was  a  groping  footstep, 
then  the  lights  went  up,  and  a  woman's  voice,  clear 
and  imperious,  mingled  with  the  lower  answers  of 
the  obsequious  servant  who  had  shown  her  in  —  a 
familiar  voice  at  which  Harry's  blood  seemed  to 
grow  still  in  his  veins : 

"  No  matter  how  late  he  is,  I  will  wait.  You 
say  he  is  at  his  office  —  is  it  so  near  as  that?  Yes, 
I  think  you  may  send  for  him  —  no,  wait  —  that 
telephone  on  the  desk!  Could  I  speak  with  him? 


160     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

No  —  I  think  after  all  I  would  rather  wait.  What 
number  did  you  say  ?  *  Seven-thirty-two  Sumner  ?  ' 
Thank  you.  Then  if  he  does  not  come  soon,  I 
will  call  him  up.  Thank  you  —  no,  I  want  nothing." 

Harry  repressed  an  impulse  to  cry  aloud.  A  thin 
streak  of  light  showed  between  the  edges  of  the 
silken  hanging,  through  which  the  man  in  the  mask 
was  peering,  and  for  a  slender  instant,  under  the 
crook's  elbow,  he  could  see  into  the  room.  The 
slender  figure  standing  there  under  the  chandelier 
was  Echo  Allen! 

She  was  in  a  dark  travelling  dress  and  wore  a 
light  veil  through  which  her  profile  looked  strained 
and  white.  The  unexpected  sight  of  her  intensified 
the  haggard  pain  of  heart  which  had  come  back  to 
Harry  with  his  awakening,  and  this  was  staggered 
by  the  knowledge  that  they  two  were  together  in 
this  unknown  dwelling. 

The  door  closed  upon  the  servant.  Behind  the 
portiere  the  red-rimmed  eyes  peered  questioningly 
into  the  eyelet  holes  of  the  black  mask.  They  said 
as  plainly  as  speech,  "  There  is  only  the  woman. 
Why  not  make  for  the  open  —  now?"  But  the 
other  was  an  older  hand.  The  room  had  but  the  sin- 
gle door  and  the  servant  might  be  standing  on  the 
other  side.  Grim  danger  lurked  in  hue  and  cry,  and 
there  was  always  the  chance  that  the  woman  might 
weary  of  waiting  and  go.  He  had  a  liking  for  the 
long  chance.  He  shook  his  head. 

Harry's  straining  ears  caught  now  the  dragging 


THE  PRICE  161 

rustle  of  a  skirt.  Echo  was  moving  slowly  across 
the  floor,  and  in  a  moment  he  saw  her  again  through 
the  slender  opening.  She  was  standing  tense  and 
straight,  her  hands  wrung  together,  finger  twisting 
against  finger,  before  the  desk  telephone.  He  saw 
her  hand  go  out  to  the  instrument,  then  draw  back 
as  though  it  had  been  a  poisonous  snake.  Then 
suddenly  he  saw  her  seize  the  transmitter  and  put 
it  to  her  ear.  The  bell  whirred. 

"  Madison,  seven-thirty-two." 

There  was  a  pause,  in  which  she  repeated  the 
number,  and  in  it  Harry  felt  that  her  face  had  hard- 
ened and  set,  like  some  cooling  plastic  beneath  an 
invisible  mould. 

"Is  that  — is  it  ...  Mr.  Cameron  Craig?" 

In  spite  of  his  iron  control,  Harry  could  not  re- 
press a  start.  He  knew  now  where  he  was  I  The 
house  behind  whose  curtain  he  perforce  skulked  with 
a  brace  of  thieves,  was  Cameron  Craig's !  And  she, 
on  this  very  day,  had  journeyed  here  too.  A  sense 
of  an  overfate,  sardonic  and  unescapable,  rushed 
upon  him.  What  a  topsy-turveydom  of  chance,  what 
a  dove-tailing  of  accident,  had  wrought  for  this 
strange  contretemps!  In  the  instant  she  waited  a 
harrowing  question  stabbed  him.  What  was  she 
doing  here,  to-night,  at  midnight  —  in  this  environ- 
ment which  had  bred  unseemly  stories  —  to  enter 
which,  under  such  circumstances,  a  woman  must  be 
unmindful  of  what  should  be  most  dear? 

"...  Do  you  know  my  voice?     Yes,  you  are 


1 62      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

right.  .  .  .  Unbelievable,  yes.  Many  things  are 
unbelievable  that  —  happen.  Listen.  I  am  at  your 
house,  in  your  library.  .  .  .  No  I  Wait.  I  have 
something  to  say  to  you,  now.  You  shall  answer  it 
first.  Once  you  asked  me  to  marry  you.  I  will  do 
so,  on  one  condition.  .  .  .  The  —  the  letters  writ- 
ten by  my  father.  You  will  not  use  them,  publish 
them.  You  will  give  them  into  my  hands.  .  .  . 
Yes.  .  .  .  One  has  been  photographed  —  yes,  the 
plate.  You  swear  to  do  so,  when  I  am  your  wife? 
.  .  .  Yes,  to-night  —  if  you  —  wish.  .  .  .  What? 
In  —  in  five  minutes?  .  .  ." 

The  receiver  clattered  down  upon  the  desk,  as  she 
sank  into  a  chair  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands.  To  her  the  broken  sentences  had  knelled 
hope  gone,  the  passing  of  youth  and  love,  the  coming 
of  a  night  in  which  was  no  star;  but  to  the  man 
sitting  in  such  assiduous  stillness  behind  the  curtains, 
they  had  told  a  story  that  sent  the  warm  blood  cours- 
ing through  his  veins.  Instead  of  being  false  to  him, 
Echo  was  really  sacrificing  herself  on  the  altar  of 
name  and  family.  She  did  not  love  the  man  with 
whom  she  had  just  spoken !  It  was  constraint  that 
had  sent  her  there  at  that  dubious  hour,  to  make  a 
bitter  bargain.  Letters  written  by  her  father? 
What  they  were  —  in  what  way  compromising  — 
Harry  could  not  guess.  Some  indiscreet  corre- 
spondence perhaps,  which,  twisted  out  of  context, 
might  be  made  ground  of  malicious  political  criti- 
cism. He  knew  her  love  for  her  father.  In  some 


THE  PRICE  163 

way  she  had  learned  of  these  letters,  had  scented 
danger  to  him,  and  now  would  ward  the  harm  from 
him  at  any  cost  to  herself !  "  Think  as  gently  of 
me  as  you  can  " —  the  words  of  her  note  passed 
through  Harry's  mind.  When  she  wrote  that  she 
had  known  that  she  should  give  herself  to  Craig! 
He  felt  a  whirl  of  rage.  The  cowardly,  contempti- 
ble cad,  who  would  have  his  desire  at  the  cost  of 
all  that  was  decent  and  clean-handed !  It  should 
never  be,  never,  never !  Why  else  had  fate  dropped 
him  there,  like  a  stone  from  a  sling?  And  yet  for 
the  moment  he  was  as  helpless  as  a  rat  in  a  trap. 
There,  only  a  half-dozen  steps  away  lay  those  letters, 
the  safe  door  unlocked.  Yet  the  steely  pressure  on 
his  temple  told  him  that  a  single  word,  a  move,  and 
he  would  be  ingloriously  past  rendering  aid  to  any- 
body, with  a  bullet  in  his  skull. 

Harry  was  conscious  that  the  two  men  beside  him 
exchanged  glances  —  they  were  going  to  make  a 
dash  for  it.  His  every  nerve  tightened.  But  at 
that  instant  the  door  opened  upon  the  obsequious 
servant.  "Did  you  ring,  Madame?"  he  asked. 

"  I  rang  the  telephone,"  she  replied  dully.  "  I 
called  up  Mr.  Craig.  He  is  coming." 

"  Very  good,  madame."  This  time  he  did  not 
leave,  but  moved  about  the  room,  setting  straight 
a  book  upon  the  table,  adjusting  a  vase,  glancing 
furtively  at  her  the  while.  The  moment  for  flight 
had  passed. 

Endless  minutes  ensued.     Then  in  the  strained 


1 64     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

silence  there  fell  a  sharp  step  outside,  and  the  ser- 
vant went  quickly  from  the  room.  Harry  felt  a 
little  tremor  run  over  him.  There  was  the  sound 
of  a  key  grating  in  a  lock.  The  outer  door  opened 
and  clanged  shut. 

Behind  the  portiere  Harry  sat  motionless,  the 
muzzle  of  the  weapon  at  his  temple,  his  hair  stirring 
to  the  suppressed  breathing  above  his  head,  and  the 
man  in  the  mask  shifted  his  felt-shod  feet,  restlessly 
but  without  sound. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

PADDY   THE    BRICK   INTERVENES 

COULD  not  believe  your  voice."     The  heavy 
tones  jarred  across  the  quiet.     "  I  could  not 
-"-     believe  that  it  was  actually  true !  " 

"Do  you  accept  my  offer?"  Echo's  voice  was 
without  a  tremor ;  it  held  the  same  hard  quality  that 
controlled  her  features. 

"  Accept !  "  He  came  toward  her  —  would 
have  taken  her  hands,  but  that  she  drew  back.  "  Do 
you  remember  what  I  told  you  that  day  in  your 
garden,  a  year  ago  —  that  nothing  counted,  nothing 
but  you?  For  you  I  would  barter  every  ambition 
I  have  ever  known.  I  would  sell  the  world,  if  I 
had  it!" 

"  When  you  told  me  that,"  she  said  steadily,  "  I 
answered  that  I  did  not  love  you.  I  have  not 
changed  in  that  regard,  nor  shall  I  ever  change.  I 
can  bring  you  no  love,  but  I  can  —  can  marry  you." 

He  laughed  harshly.  "Very  well;  I  would  not 
have  it  different,  after  all.  I  am  not  made  on  the 
pattern  of  other  men:  I  would  rather  take  you 
against  your  will  —  you  will  be  all  the  more  mine ! 
I  love  even  that  fine  disdain  of  yours !  For  it  shall 
not  last  —  I  swear  that !  You  shall  love  me  in  the 
end,  as  I  have  loved  you !  " 
165 


1 66      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

"  Loved !  "  she  repeated,  with  an  accent  of  chill 
and  wondering  scorn. 

"  Yes,  loved !  "  The  words  were  almost  a  cry : 
they  held  fierce  protest,  even  anger,  yet  there  was 
in  them  a  kind  of  appeal  that  lent  them  a  sombre 
and  tragic  dignity.  "  But  you  despised  me !  You 
had  stood  first  of  all  things.  But  if  you  could  be 
nothing  to  me,  then  the  game  I  played  stood  second. 
I  played,  as  always,  to  win.  The  cards  fell  oddly 
—  your  father's  letters,  no  matter  how,  came  into 
my  hands.  They  were  to  my  purpose,  and  I  would 
have  used  them.  Why  should  I  hold  back?  Out 
of  regard  for  him  ?  I  regard  no  man !  " 

"  Yet  he  is  my  father.  And  you  profess  —  ah, 
if  this  is  love,  I  had  rather  you  hated  me !  I  know 
nothing  of  a  love  that  is  neither  brave  nor  com- 
passionate, that  strikes  at  the  aged  and  defenceless 
and  that  is  without  —  honour !  " 

He  had  not  taken  his  eyes  from  her  face,  and  now 
there  grew  in  them  a  strange,  haggard  fire.  Relent- 
less and  unscrupulous  as  was  that  love  of  his,  Harry 
could  have  pitied  him  at  that  moment.  "  Honour?  " 
he  said.  "  It  is  an  empty  word  to  me !  What  is 
honour,  what  is  anything,  to  me  without  you  — 
Echo,  Echo!" 

"  If  you  love  me  so  —  and  now,  indeed,  I  will 
believe  it  —  give  me  the  letters !  "  She  took  a  step 
toward  him,  her  hands  clasped  together.  "  Be  as 
chivalrous  as  you  are  strong!  Do  not  do  this  ig- 


PADDY  THE  BRICK  INTERVENES     167 

noble  thing  to  break  my  life !  I  may  be  your  friend, 
if  not  —  that  other.  Surely  you  cannot  want  to  take 
me  at  such  a  price!  Do  this  and  all  my  life  long 
I  will  be  grateful!  Oh,  I  would  ask  you  on  my 
knees !  Give  me  the  letters !  " 

He  looked  at  her  where  she  stood  breathlessly, 
with  arms  extended,  her  face  bent  and  pleading,  and 
the  sight  opened  wide  within  him  an  abyss  that 
thronged  thick  with  evil  passions.  The  gentler  pur- 
pose that  for  a  heart-beat  had  fluttered  white  wings 
above  the  chasm  dropped  plummet-like  into  the 
depths.  Give  her  up  ?  Now,  when  she  came  to  him 
with  her  offer?  Resign  her  —  to  that  tippling 
dilettante,  that  flamboyant  fop  and  fool  who  had 
drowned  his  success  in  a  bottle  ?  Not  he !  A  sav- 
age elation  sprang  up  in  him. 

u  When  you  are  my  wife !  "  he  said. 

She  straightened,  withdrawing  her  arms  with 
a  little  gesture  of  despair  and  relinquishment. 
"Where  are  the  letters?" 

He  pointed  to  the  safe.     "  They  are  there." 

"  When  will  you  give  them  to  me  ?  " 

"  To-night  —  the  same  hour  you  marry  me.  You 
shall  burn  them  if  you  like,  here  —  in  this  very  room 
—  with  your  own  hands." 

"You  swear?" 

"  I  do.  And  whatever  else  men  may  say  of  me, 
there  is  no  man  living  who  can  say  I  have  ever  lied." 

There  was  an  instant's  silence  and  when  Craig 


1 68      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

spoke  again  all  feeling  had  vanished  from  his  voice. 
He  was  once  more  the  deliberate  and  incisive  man 
of  action.  He  snapped  the  lid  of  his  watch. 

"  It  is  very  late,"  he  said,  "  but  it  can  be  man- 
aged. It  shall  be  at  the  hotel  —  you  can  rest  there 
while  I  make  the  necessary  arrangements.  My 
chauffeur  is  off-duty  to-night,  but  it  is  only  a  block 
away,  fortunately.  Shall  you  mind  walking?" 

"  No,"  she  said,  apathetically. 

Harry  was  holding  himself  hard.  They  were 
going.  He  saw  clearly  his  course  of  action.  His 
two  partners  in  that  sorry  escapade  might  have  what 
they  had  come  for  —  he  could  compound  with  them, 
could  take  the  letters  to  the  hotel  and  put  them  into 
Echo's  hands.  She  would  never  need  to  know  how 
he  had  gained  them  —  that  drunken  episode,  whose 
very  memory  must  bring  a  shaming  flush  to  his 
cheek,  should  be  buried  forever  I  The  letters  would 
not  have  come  to  her  from  Craig,  and  she  would 
stand  absolved  of  her  promise.  But  even  as  this 
ran  through  his  mind,  fate  thrust  its  hidden  hand 
from  the  cloud. 

"  One  moment,"  said  Craig.  "  When  I  came  in, 
it  was  beginning  to  rain.  You  will  need  a  cloak  of 
some  sort."  He  turned  abruptly  to  the  curtained 
alcove. 

The  pressure  on  Harry's  temple  relaxed.  The 
black  mask  thrust  forward,  the  man  with  the  sand- 
coloured  hair  parted  the  hangings  —  his  outstretched 
arm  shot  out  toward  the  advancing  figure.  Harry's 


PADDY  THE  BRICK  INTERVENES     169 

gaze  saw  something  red  leap  up  from  Craig's  temple, 
even  before  the  terrifying  concussion  rocked  the 
room  —  a  sound  threaded  by  Echo's  scream. 

There  was  a  rush,  a  curse  and  a  scramble,  flying 
feet  and  a  dismayed  shout  from  the  hall  —  then  a 
shocked  quiet  in  which  he  stood  disconcerted  and 
appalled,  staring  between  the  shielding  curtains, 
through  pungent  smoke-wreaths,  at  a  girl,  her  hand 
over  her  eyes,  who  shrank  in  overmastering  terror 
from  a  massive  form  that  lay  collapsed  on  the  rug 
before  her  —  Cameron  Craig,  inert  and  still,  blind 
and  deaf  now  to  sight  and  sound,  the  brain  empty 
of  scheming,  the  full  cup  of  his  ambition  dashed 
from  his  lips  by  the  crashing  bullet  of  a  slinking 
house-breaker. 


CHAPTER  XX 

WHAT  MATTERED  MOST 

WITH  that  scream  Harry's  every  nerve  had 
become  as  tense  as  wire.     In  his  mind's 
eye  he  saw  her  innocency  tangled  in  this 
hideous  web  of  burglary  —  perhaps  of  murder,  her 
name  on  every  lip,  her  face  blazoned  in  every  yellow 
extra,  as  the  "  woman  in  the  case  I  "     The  crisis 
spelled  now  and  he  acted  with  swift  instinct. 

He  snatched  the  black  mask  from  the  floor  and 
adjusted  it  to  his  own  face,  then  darted  to  the  safe 
and  jerked  open  its  heavy  door.  While  the  retreat- 
ing servant's  alarm  still  echoed  from  the  hallway  of 
the  empty  wing,  his  fingers,  with  the  swiftness  of 
desperation,  went  searching  the  papers  in  the  safe. 
He  came  almost  instantly  upon  what  he  sought  — 
a  thin  packet  of  letters,  tied  together  with  a  small 
photographic  plate,  ticketed  with  the  name  "  Bev- 
erly Allen." 

Echo  had  shrunk  back,  was  leaning  now  against 
the  wall,  thriving  terror  of  him  in  her  eyes.  He 
came  toward  her. 

"  Here !  "  he  said,  his  voice  muffled  by  the  mask. 
"  The  letters !  Take  them  and  go  —  go  instantly !  " 

11  He  has  —  killed  him !  "  she  gasped.  "  Why  do 
you  — " 

170 


WHAT  MATTERED  MOST          171 

Harry  was  sick  with  apprehension.  As  in  the 
instant  of  drowning  the  smothering  intelligence  sees 
pass  in  vivid  review  before  it  the  innumerable  mo- 
saic of  a  busy  life-time,  so  he  saw,  swiftly  arrayed 
in  the  imminent  climax,  the  perilous  hazards  by 
which  she  was  surrounded.  Suppose  Craig  was 
dead,  and  she  were  apprehended,  the  letters  put  in 
evidence,  and  she  told  the  truth,  word  for  word,  as 
she  knew  it.  If  her  own  estimate  of  their  signifi- 
cance was  a  correct  one,  might  not  the  most  sinister 
suspicion  then  rest  upon  her?  And  if,  as  seemed 
likely,  she  was  wrong  in  that  surmise  —  even  were 
the  presence  of  accidental  burglars  proven  —  what 
could  explain  her  presence  there,  alone  in  Craig's 
midnight  library?  Would  it  not  seem  to  the  great 
sceptical,  sophisticated  world  only  a  tale  invented  to 
cover  the  old  hackneyed  story  of  a  woman's  infatua- 
tion? Would  it  not  ruin  her?  He  thrust  the 
packet  into  her  shaking  hands,  seized  her  arm  and 
dragged  her  to  the  hall. 

"Quick!"  he  said,  roughly.  "The  house  is 
roused !  Hurry  —  for  heaven's  sake  I  "  He  thrust 
her  through  the  outer  door.  "  Down  the  path  to 
the  gate !  Go  1  " 

She  looked  at  him  a  breathless  instant.  On  the 
floor  above  them  a  window  was  flung  open  and  a 
shout  rang  out.  Then,  drawing  a  breath  that  was 
a  sob,  she  caught  the  letters  to  her  breast,  turned, 
and  fled  in  an  anguish  of  speed  through  the  misty 
shrubbery. 


172      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

In  the  bluntness  of  the  dilemma  Harry's  only 
thought  had  been  to  get  her  away  and  speedily  — 
then  to  make  his  own  escape.  For  he  himself  stood 
also  in  evil  case.  If  Echo's  presence  there  would 
be  difficult  to  explain,  what  could  be  said  of  his  own  ? 
To  whom,  save  perhaps  the  occasional  student  of 
aberrant  mental  phenomena,  would  the  true  story 
of  his  blind  and  besotted  adventuring  seem  credible? 
It  came  to  him  instantly  now,  however,  that  to  insure 
her  safe  retreat,  he  must  jeopardise,  perhaps  fatally, 
his  own.  The  two  house-breakers  had  no  doubt 
planned  their  flitting  —  possibly  a  handy  ladder  in 
some  hidden  angle  of  the  wall;  but  the  open  gate 
was  the  only  route  he  knew,  and  he  had  sent  Echo 
by  this  way.  For  him  to  follow  in  her  footsteps 
would  draw  the  damnable  hue  and  cry  and  double 
the  odds  against  her.  She  needed,  perhaps,  only 
minutes,  but  the  stir  of  frightened  awakening  that 
sounded  through  the  upper  floor  told  him  that  for 
him  even  seconds  might  be  fatal.  Great  beads  of 
sweat  broke  on  his  forehead. 

And  what  an  alternative !  He,  Harry  Sevier,  of 
position  and  clean  honour,  to  be  arrested  red-handed, 
in  apparent  comradeship  with  criminals,  a  partner 
in  a  desperate  attempt  at  robbery  under  arms !  To 
be  haled  to  court,  to  sit  as  he  had  seen  men  sit  so 
often,  under  a  perilous  judgment!  For  with  the 
logic  of  the  legal  mind  perilous  indeed  Harry  knew 
it  would  be.  If  Craig  lay  dead  in  the  room  behind 


WHAT  MATTERED  MOST          173 

him,  he  would  be  charged  with  his  murder !  A  chill 
ran  over  him. 

As  these  thoughts  rushed  through  his  mind,  Harry 
passed  through  a  crucial  episode  of  his  mental  life 
—  its  first  vital  and  supreme  moment.  It  was  not 
of  himself  he  thought  now.  It  was  only  of  Echo. 
What  became  of  him  mattered  little.  It  was  she 
who  mattered  most!  At  whatever  risk  to  himself 
he  must  turn  the  pursuit  from  her! 

A  burly  man-servant,  bareheaded  and  coatless, 
came  panting  from  the  rear  between  the  trees.  Lest 
he  take  the  path  toward  the  gate,  Harry  blundered, 
in  his  view,  across  the  lighted  porch  and  dashed 
around  the  wing,  the  other  giving  instant  cry. 
Harry  led  him  on,  doubling  about  the  shrubbery. 
Near  at  hand  the  wall  reared,  hopelessly  high  and 
without  a  break.  He  skirted  a  huddle  of  servants' 
quarters,  rounded  the  main  building  and  came  again 
to  the  front.  And  then,  approaching  at  a  double- 
quick  across  the  lawn,  he  caught  the  flash  of  a  bull's- 
eye.  With  a  wave  of  thankfulness  he  realised  that 
the  helmeted  figure  who  carried  it  was  coming  from 
the  gate.  Echo  had  passed  through  safely! 

Unseen  he  slipped  again  into  the  shadow  of  the 
great  open  door  from  which  he  had  come.  Until 
that  moment  he  had  not  realised  that  he  still  held 
in  his  hand  the  black  mask.  There  was  nothing  to 
do  now  —  his  own  escape  was  impossible,  but  he 
had  saved  her! 


174      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

Suddenly  the  hall  light  went  up,  and  with  it  a 
brusque  voice  spoke  from  the  stairway. 

"  Hands  up !  I'm  covering  you.  He's  here,  lads 
—  we've  got  him  cornered.  Tell  that  silly  maid  to 
quit  screaming  and  ring  up  the  police." 

Harry  had  lifted  his  hands  above  his  head.  The 
black  mask  fell  at  his  feet.  "  All  right,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
CRAIG'S  WAY 

A  HALF-HOUR  later  a  surgeon  and  a  nurse 
had  been  hurriedly  summoned  from  the 
hospital,  the  wounded  man  had  been  car- 
ried to  an  upper  chamber,  and  Harry  Sevier  set  in 
a  room  across  the  hall  from  the  library,  under  guard, 
hand-cuffs  on  his  wrists.  A  blue-coated  policeman 
stood  grimly  at  his  side,  another  at  the  door,  and 
from  time  to  time  the  white,  awed  countenance  of 
some  servant  appeared  to  stare  at  him  from  the 
threshold  and  disappear. 

His  own  face,  though  haggard,  was  apparently 
unmoved  by  the  strenuous  excitement  that  hung  about 
the  place,  yet  behind  the  affected  nonchalance  his 
brain  was  in  a  turmoil  of  hope  and  of  dread.  In 
the  swift  and  breathless  decision  that  the  event  had 
forced  upon  him  he  had  not  had  time  to  weigh  all 
chances.  It  had  seemed  then  that  the  vise  must  grip 
either  him  or  Echo,  and  that  the  choice  lay  in  his 
hands.  In  the  moments  that  followed,  however,  as 
he  sat  moveless  in  the  strident  confusion,  he  had 
realised  that  the  problem  had  been  by  no  means  so 
simple,  and  it  had  come  to  him  with  a  pang  that 
Echo's  certain  safety  had  lain  only  in  his  own  escape. 

She  now  believed  that  she  had  been  extricated 
i7S 


176      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

from  danger  by  a  common  thief  who,  in  his  rifling 
of  the  safe,  had  seen  the  letters  she  pleaded  with 
Craig  for,  and  in  the  final  tragic  moment  had  taken 
pity  on  her  plight.  When  she  learned  that  one  of 
those  house-breakers  had  been  Harry  Sevier,  what 
then  ?  She  would  never  believe  him  the  vulgar  crim- 
inal! Her  imagination  would  rush  to  another  ex- 
planation which  would  give  his  presence  there  a  dis- 
mal significance.  She  would  conclude  that  he  had 
somehow  discovered  the  strait  in  which  she  con- 
ceived her  father  stood,  and  in  an  attempt  to  retrieve 
the  letters  had  met  Craig's  chicanery  with  technical 
crime  —  made  use,  which  to  him  had  seemed  justi- 
fiable, of  cracksmen,  and  with  them  had  been  caught 
in  the  emergency  whose  sudden  panic  had  evoked 
that  shot  from  the  alcove!  Whichever  way  the 
tragedy  turned,  it  would  be  infinitely  darkened  for 
her  by  the  reflection  that  it  had  been  her  strait  which 
had  brought  the  trouble  upon  him. 

And  if  murder  had  been  done,  and  she  learned 
with  shrinking  heart  that  he,  Harry,  stood  accused 
by  the  law,  what  then?  She  knew  that  his  hand 
had  not  pulled  the  trigger,  for  she  had  seen  the  face 
of  the  shooter.  Her  gasping  exclamation  — "  He 
has  —  killed  him !  " —  had  made  that  clear  to  Harry. 
She  would  rush  to  the  rescue,  forgetful  of  all  else, 
and  with  her  testimony,  bring  down  the  avalanche 
upon  her! 

On  the  heels  of  these  reflections  a  thrill  of  hope 
had  come  to  him.  Craig  was  not  yet  dead  —  there 


CRAIG'S  WAY  177 

had  been  no  sign  from  above-stairs  since  the  hurried 
arrival  of  the  surgeon.  Also  it  was  anticipated  that 
he  would  recover  consciousness.  Harry's  knowl- 
edge of  criminal  procedure  told  him  that  this  was  the 
meaning  of  his  long  detention  there.  Should  con- 
sciousness come,  if  merely  for  an  appreciable  inter- 
val, he  would  be  brought  face  to  face  with  the 
wounded  man.  It  was  this  that  all  awaited  now, 
and  in  it  Harry  discerned  the  sole  possibility  of  sav- 
ing the  situation. 

"  Craig  must  have  seen  him  when  he  fired!  "  he 
told  himself.  "  For  the  fraction  of  a  second  they 
were  face  to  face.  If  he  is  able  to  make  a  state- 
ment, it  will  clear  me !  He  will  be  silent  about  Echo, 
too,  for  he  will  expect,  if  he  lives,  to  make  her  his 
wife  —  it  will  be  a  long  time,  probably,  before  he 
misses  the  letters!  And  if  I  am  disassociated,  by 
Craig  himself,  from  the  attack  on  his  life,  there 
will  no  longer  be  any  question  of  her  involving  her- 
self to  defend  me !  "  His  heart  lightened  and  the 
great  load  seemed  to  lift  from  his  soul.  It  was  the 
implication  of  Echo  that  had  made  the  situation 
impossible  —  the  unbelievable  coincidence  of  their 
joint  presence  —  in  damnable  propinquity  with  the 
shooting.  With  Echo  eliminated  and  he  himself 
free  from  that  cowardly  indictment,  would  not  all 
yet  be  well  ?  He  was  well  enough  known.  He  was 
no  sordid  house-breaker  —  in  spite  of  the  humili- 
ating incident  of  his  entrance  there  that  night! 

His  thought  broke,  as  a  spruce  young  man,  with 


178      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

the  air  of  authority  which  is  the  perquisite  and  pre- 
requisite of  the  private-secretary,  entered  and  whis- 
pered with  the  guardian  at  the  door. 

Harry's  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating.  "  Is  he  — 
dead?"  he  asked. 

The  young  man  looked  at  him  coldly.  "  Not 
yet." 

"Will  he  live?" 

There  was  a  longer  pause  before  the  other  re- 
plied: "  It's  too  soon  to  tell  yet.  It's  up  to  you 
to  hope  so,  I  imagine." 

He  whispered  again  with  the  officer,  then  crossed 
the  hall  to  the  library,  which  he  entered,  closing  the 
door  behind  him. 

When  the  secretary  reappeared  he  went  quickly 
up  the  stair  and  along  a  hall.  There  he  tapped  on 
a  door  and  opened  it. 

The  room  disclosed  was  the  one  in  which  Craig 
lay.  At  one  side  was  a  small  table  covered  with  a 
white  cloth,  with  a  melee  of  nickelled  instruments, 
rolls  of  absorbent  bandaging  and  a  basin  of  red- 
dened liquid.  The  air  was  full  of  the  sickish-sweet 
halitus  of  some  drug.  Craig's  head  on  the  pillow 
was  wound  with  the  white  swathing  and  the  nurse 
stood  beside  the  bed.  The  doctor  came  forward, 
and  the  secretary  spoke  to  him  in  an  undertone. 

All  at  once  Craig  opened  his  eyes.  He  looked 
acutely  at  the  faces  so  near  him,  the  cloth-covered 
table  with  its  instruments,  the  white-capped  nurse. 


CRAIG'S  WAY  179 

"I  —  know,"  he  said.  He  tried  to  lift  a  hand 
to  his  bandaged  head.  "  How  —  bad?  " 

The  doctor  laid  a  professional  hand  on  the  one 
that  strayed  across  the  coverlet.  "  We  want  to  pull 
you  through,  Mr.  Craig,"  he  said  with  soothing 
assurance,  "  and  you  must  help  us  by  wiping  every 
anxiety  from  your  mind.  Only  a  dozen  words  with 
your  secretary  here,  to  help  you  stop  even  thinking, 
and  then  you  are  going  to  sleep." 

The  young  man  came  to  the  bed-side.  "  It  was 
an  attempted  burglary,  as  you  probably  realised,  sir. 
Two  men  were  hidden  in  the  library  and  you  were 
shot  when  they  tried  to  get  away.  One  of  them 
has  been  caught.  The  servants  say  a  lady  was  with 
you  at  the  time  and  the  police  want  to  know  who 
she  was." 

Craig  did  not  reply  immediately.  Echo  had 
slipped  away  in  the  confusion!  Well,  so  much  the 
better.  Her  presence  could  not  have  helped.  It 
was  no  more  to  his  interest  than  to  hers  —  since  she 
was  to  be  his  wife  —  that  the  story  of  her  midnight 
call  should  be  bruited  abroad.  "I  —  don't  know 
—  her,"  he  said. 

"  I'll  tell  them  so,"  said  the  secretary.  "  The 
safe  had  been  opened,  but  its  contents  are  practically 
intact.  I  have  checked  up  all  the  papers  on  the 
list  and  there  seems  to  be  only  one  thing  missing. 
Perhaps  you  took  that  out  yourself.  It  is  the  last 
item  on  the  list  —  a  package  of  letters." 

A  quick  gleam  crossed  the  white  face  on  the  pillow. 


i8o     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

"Gone?  No  —  no.  Impossible.  They  were — • 
of  no  —  value  to  —  any  one  but  me." 

"  You  may  have  put  them  in  your  desk,"  said  the 
other.  He  turned  to  the  surgeon.  "  The  police 
want  to  bring  up  the  man  for  identification." 

The  man  of  medicines  frowned.  "  I  suppose  it 
has  to  be,"  he  said.  "  Tell  them  to  do  so  quickly. 
Only  a  word,"  he  warned  the  wounded  man. 

A  moment  or  two  later  the  secretary  tapped  again 
at  the  door  and  it  opened  upon  the  two  policemen. 
Harry  walked  between,  the  chain  on  his  wrists  clink- 
ing lightly  as  he  stepped.  One  of  them  came  for- 
ward to  the  foot  of  the  great  bed. 

"  You  saw  the  man  who  shot  you,  Mr.  Craig?  " 

"  Yes." 

He  beckoned  and  Harry  and  his  guardian  moved 
forward  into  range  of  vision. 

"  You  solemnly  swear  that  what  you  shall  say  is 
the  truth?" 

"  Yes." 

"Is  this  the  one?" 

Craig  stared  —  a  look  of  negation  that  made 
Harry's  heart  leap.  It  was  a  look  also  that  held 
no  recognition,  and  in  that  instant,  for  the  first  time 
since  that  night's  harrowing  series  of  events  had 
begun,  Harry  remembered  that  he  stood  in  strange 
guise,  in  unaccustomed  clothes  and  with  smooth- 
shaven  chin. 

But  into  the  eyes  that  gazed  from  the  pillow  rec- 
ognition speedily  came  —  recognition  strangely  com- 


CRAIG'S  WAY  181 

mingled  of  incredulity,  amaze,  distempered  suspicion, 
leaping  swiftly  to  a  slow,  deadly  certainty.  A  lurid 
sequence  was  running  across  the  fevered  mind  that 
the  man  confronting  him  could  not  read: 

Harry  Sevier  sculking  there  and  disguised  —  one 
of  the  burglars!  The  missing  letters  —  Echo  had 
gone  with  them  1  It  had  been  a  cunning,  hypocritical 
plot,  then,  with  a  hired  safe-robber  and  thug  —  and 
they  had  tricked  and  baffled  him.  Craig  gasped. 
His  eyes  suffused  with  blood.  He  had  said  that  he 
had  not  known  the  woman.  Yet  he  could  still  score ! 
Living  or  dying,  he  could  drag  down  Harry  Sevier 
to  a  black  depth  from  which  he  should  never  rise 
again ! 

He  laughed,  a  harsh  jarring  laugh.  His  face 
became  convulsed.  He  tried  to  lift  himself  on  an 
elbow.  The  nurse  thrust  her  strong  arms  beneath 
the  pillow  and  raised  him.  He  pointed  his  finger 
at  Harry. 

"  Yes !  "  he  said  in  a  crackling  whisper.  "  He  is 
the  man  who  —  did  it !  He  —  shot  me !  " 

"  Do  you  know  him?  "  The  officer  spoke  clearly, 
leaning  forward. 

"  Yes.     I  —  he  is  — " 

But  that  was  all.  With  a  final  vain  effort,  his 
head  fell  back  on  the  pillow.  That  last  flare  of 
rage,  of  revengeful  hatred,  had  exhausted  the  sick 
vitality,  and  he  was  gone  into  unconsciousness. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

HARRY   DECIDES 

THE    steel   handcuff   bit   more    hardly   into 
Harry's  wrist,  but  he  did  not  feel  it.     His 
eyes  were  fixed  and  his  face  had  grown  grey, 
The  accusation,  with  all  its  shuddering  implications, 
had  surged  over  him  like  the  assurance  of  the  unes- 
capable  end,  the  last  engulfing  wave  of  hopeless 
finality  which,  in  its  subsidence,  left  him  cold  and 
still.     Malice  and  hatred  had  closed  the  door  of 
hope. 

His  sacrifice  had  gone  for  nothing.  He  could 
not  save  Echo.  The  matter  had  been  taken  from 
his  hands.  She  must  be  involved.  If  murder  had 
been  done,  her  passionate  denial  in  his  defence 
would  no  doubt  suffice  to  save  him  —  he  knew  his 
southern  juries !  —  but  at  what  a  price  to  her  would 
be  his  salvation !  For  though  sufficient  doubt  would 
be  insinuated  to  legally  acquit  him,  in  the  eyes  of 
their  world  harrowing  suspicions  must  always  cling 
to  her.  Collusion  between  her  and  himself,  her 
lover,  to  secure  compromising  letters,  a  guilty  under- 
standing embracing  possible  murder!  A  midnight 
rendezvous  with  one  lover,  converted  into  swift 
tragedy  by  the  vengeful  pursuit  of  the  other!  So 
the  speculations  would  run,  and  the  baleful  whis- 
182 


HARRY  DECIDES  183 

pers  would  follow  her  all  her  life.  What  matter 
though  she  married  him?  Would  love  make  up  for 
that? 

It  was  the  Harry  Sevier  of  remorseless  logic,  of 
clear  thinking  and  rigid  analysis,  who  reasoned  now. 

A  tall  old  clock  stood  at  the  turn  of  the  echoing 
stair  and  as  he  descended  between  his  two  uniformed 
attendants,  grimly  watchful  of  his  every  movement, 
he  noted  mechanically  that  it  was  two  o'clock.  It 
came  to  him  with  a  chill  and  awed  amazement  how 
much  might  happen  within  one  round  of  the  clock. 
When  those  hands  had  last  pointed  to  two  o'clock 
he  had  stood  in  his  office,  a  man  of  reputation  and 
newly-ordered  life,  with  all  his  heart  beating  to  love ; 
now  he  was  disgraced,  the  woman  he  loved  about 
to  know  the  shame  and  hideous  notoriety  of  scandal, 
both  of  them  to  be  pilloried  together  as  principals 
in  another  of  those  horrifying  revelations  of  double- 
life  which  at  periodic  intervals  shock  a  community's 
decorum ! 

It  was  not  for  himself  he  was  thinking  first.  His 
pain  for  Echo  swallowed  up  his  own.  As  he  sat 
in  the  cab  between  his  guardians,  bound  for  the  sta- 
tion-house and  the  police  interrogatory  that  should 
fling  abroad  its  sensation  in  the  morning's  papers, 
his  composure  crumbled.  He  bent  and  put  his  cold 
face  in  his  colder  hands.  His  lips  moved  voice- 
lessly. 

"  Echo  .  .  .  Echo !  "  he  whispered.  "  You  have 
had  my  love,  you  have  it  now.  You  could  have  my 


1 84     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

life,  if  I  could  give  it  —  every  day,  every  drop  of 
my  blood,  would  not  be  enough  to  pay  the  price  of 
what  you  must  bear!  But  it  is  out  of  my  power. 
I  thought  I  could  save  you,  my  darling !  But  I  can't. 
...  I  can't.  ...  If  I  might  only  suffer  alone,  and 
you  never  know  I  " 

He  lifted  his  head  with  a  start.  A  thought  had 
darted  to  his  mind  like  an  impinging  ray  of  light. 
Why  should  she  ever  know?  Why  should  any  one 
know  —  if  Craig  died?  Only  Craig  who  had 
known  him  in  the  past,  had  recognised  him  as  Harry 
Sevier.  Perhaps  that  was  the  greatest  risk  he  should 
have  to  run.  He  could  take  refuge  in  silence,  tell 
nothing,  explain  nothing.  She  would  not  know  that 
the  real  shooter  had  not  been  taken.  Could  he 
maintain  under  the  searching  purview  of  the  law 
that  anonymity  which  he  had  sought  to  insure  during 
the  debauch  into  which  he  had  so  avidly  plunged 
yesterday  afternoon?  Why  not?  He  had  so  ad- 
justed his  home  affairs,  luckily,  that  a  long  time  — 
perhaps  many  months  —  would  elapse  before  his 
absence  would  be  narrowly  questioned.  He  was  now 
in  a  city  where  he  was  not  known :  hundreds  of  miles 
of  steel  rails  lay  between  him  and  the  crowds  to 
whom  he  was  a  familiar  figure.  His  dark  beard  — 
so  distinguishing  a  feature  —  was  gone.  He  had 
discarded  the  characteristic  gold-rimmed  eye-glasses. 
Not  an  article  of  clothing  he  wore  bore  his  name. 
His  present  face  might  be  flung  on  printed  pages  to 
the  four  winds,  and  who,  even  of  those  who  had 


HARRY  DECIDES  185 

seen  him  day  in  and  day  out,  would  say,  "  It  is 
Harry  Sevier !  " 

There  were  but  two  contingencies.  If  Craig  re- 
covered sufficient  consciousness  to  speak  the  name 
that  had  fainted  on  his  lips  when  they  two  had  been 
face  to  face  in  that  room  of  hurried  surgery  —  then 
his  incognito  would  fall  and  fate  must  have  its  way. 
If  Craig  died  without  recovering  consciousness  — 
this,  provided  his  own  identity  was  not  discovered, 
was  the  one  way  out  for  Echo. 

For  him  it  meant,  probably,  the  last  risk.  He 
had  now  to  meet  no  mere  assumption  of  guilt,  but 
an  accusation,  direct  and  unqualified,  made  under 
oath,  in  what  might  well  be  the  hour  of  death.  He 
could  not  offer  in  rebuttal  evidence  of  character, 
reputation  and  standing.  He  was  deliberately  re- 
fusing to  call  his  only  witness  to  the  fact.  Yet  he 
did  not  waver.  The  Harry  Sevier  who  under  the 
stress  of  impulse  had  acted  so  swiftly  to  save  the 
woman  he  loved,  elected  the  same  choice  now. 

He  would  do  it.  Whatever  the  risk,  whatever 
the  ultimate  cost  to  him,  he  would  do  it! 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE    BROKEN    PICTURE 

"  T"T  YUH  yo'  is,  honey,  smack-dab  on  time !  " 
I  I  called  'Lige's  cheery  voice,  as  he  took 
-*-  -*-  Echo's  bag.  **  Yo'  fo'got  ter  say  which 
train  yo'  comin'  back  on  yistiddy,  so  ah  ben  waitin' 
wid  dee  cya'age  fo  dee  las'  fo'.  Ah  was  figuratin' 
on  yo'  gittin'  hyuh  fo'  dinnah,  sho'." 

As  they  bowled  along  toward  home  Echo  won- 
dered if  she  could  really  be  the  same  girl  who  had 
driven  away  the  day  before  along  those  self-same 
streets!  The  strenuous  events  through  which  she 
had  passed  seemed  the  terrifying  creation  of  a 
dream,  a  nightmarish  panorama  of  the  sick  imagina- 
tion, so  wild  and  incredible  all  appeared  in  the  serene 
light  of  this  day:  The  painful  scene  in  Craig's  li- 
brary that  had  ended  in  swift  tragedy,  with  the  appa- 
rition between  the  portieres  of  that  baleful  face  — 
with  its  narrow  eyes  and  upthrust  of  nondescript 
hair  it  had  stamped  itself  ineffacably  upon  her  mem- 
ory !  —  the  deafening  shot  and  the  after  confusion 
—  those  breathless  moments  when  she  had  run  along 
the  wet  path,  with  a  sense  of  flashing  lights  and 
alarm  behind  her  —  her  safe  emergence  into  the 
demure  street,  where  she  dared  not  run,  compelling 
herself  to  walk  albeit  ready  to  faint  with  fear  at 
186 


THE  BROKEN  PICTURE  187 

sight  of  a  patrolling  policeman  —  the  ghastly  delay 
in  the  stuffy  waiting-room  of  the  station  where  she 
had  checked  her  bag  on  arrival  —  the  suffocating 
relief  when  at  last  the  express  pulled  out,  bearing 
her  away  unchallenged. 

Through  the  long  night  she  had  tossed  feverishly 
in  her  berth,  without  undressing,  at  intervals  feeling 
the  meaning  of  the  catastrophe  in  which  she  had 
figured  surge  over  her  in  a  flood.  That  catastrophe 
itself  had  saved  her  from  one  horror :  but  for  it  she 
would  now  be  the  wife  of  Cameron  Craig  —  a 
thought  that  made  her  shiver.  Now  she  was  safe ! 
In  all  that  trip,  fortunately,  she  had  encountered  no 
one  she  knew.  She  had  seen  but  one  servant  at 
the  house  and  in  his  presence  had  worn  a  light  veil. 
Only  Craig  had  known  who  she  was !  What  if  she 
had  been  taken  —  held  as  a  witness?  How  could 
she  have  explained  her  presence  except  by  the  letters 
for  whose  suppression  she  had  been  ready  to  give 
her  life's  happiness?  As  in  imagination  she  saw 
her  father  and  herself  pictured  in  the  yellow  press, 
the  centre  of  gossip  and  humiliating  notoriety,  she 
hugged  the  letters  to  her  breast  with  intensest  grati- 
tude toward  the  desperado  who  had  extricated  her 
from  the  instant  crisis.  With  what  swift  self-pos- 
session he  had  acted  for  her  safety!  That  in  that 
lightning-like  emergency  he  should  have  even  thought 
of  the  letters  filled  her  with  astonishment.  Over 
and  over  again  she  tried  to  picture  his  face  behind 
the  mask,  as  his  hand  had  held  out  the  packet  to 


i88      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

her.  Her  senses  had  been  shocked  keenly  alive  at 
the  moment :  she  had  even  noted  —  as  in  tense  crises 
one  notes  inconsequent  trifles  —  the  ring  on  his  fin- 
ger with  its  curious,  square  green  stone.  A  thou- 
sand times  she  lost  herself  in  wonder  that  a  man 
capable  of  such  a  deed  to  an  unknown  woman  could 
yet  be  a  common  burglar,  one  of  the  desperate  gang 
whose  leader  was  now  awaiting  trial,  and  whose 
malignant  face  and  levelled  pistol  haunted  her. 
Then  the  shuddering  thought  would  roll  over  her 
that  she,  Echo  Allen,  had  witnessed  the  awful  act 
of  murder,  and  she  would  hide  her  face  in  her  pillow, 
trembling  and  spent.  Dawn  had  long  been  whiten- 
ing the  windows  when  the  strained  nerves  relaxed 
and  the  body,  fatigued  by  two  sleepless  nights,  found 
fitful  rest. 

The  sun  had  been  high  when  she  awoke  and  by 
the  time  she  had  made  her  toilette  and  drunk  a  cup 
of  coffee  she  had  reached  the  little  station  for  which 
she  had  ostensibly  started  the  preceding  day.  A 
rambling  hack  had  taken  her  to  the  home  of  her 
aunt  —  a  recluse  who  had  for  a  dozen  years  regarded 
the  outer  world  through  the  blurred  medium  of 
semi-invalidism,  absorbed  in  her  languid  reading  and 
her  flowers.  On  arrival  Echo  had  found  the  frail 
figure  lying  out  among  her  roses,  with  white,  wild 
butterflies  flaunting  about  her,  stronger  than  she  had 
(been  for  months  past,  and  free  from  the  querulous 
humours  which  generally  held  her.  So  keen  was 
her  delight  in  her  betterment  that  Echo  had  found 


THE  BROKEN  PICTURE  189 

it  easy  to  accomplish  her  own  departure  after  lunch- 
eon, though  she  generally  stayed  the  night.  There 
was  for  the  present,  therefore,  no  added  absence 
to  be  accounted  for,  and  the  lapse  of  time  might 
never  have  to  be  explained. 

As  she  drove  now  from  the  station  through  the 
bustling,  down-town  streets  toward  Midfields,  the 
knowledge  that  her  father's  secret  was  safe  over- 
shadowed all  the  pain  through  which  she  had  passed. 
The  dreadful  memory  dulled  in  the  sunshine  and  the 
sense  of  security  buoyed  her.  She  would  never  have 
to  tell  her  part  in  that  terrible  night  to  any  one. 
Not  even  to  Harry :  she  could  tell  him  that  she  had 
never  loved  any  one  but  him:  that  it  had  been  mis- 
understanding that  had  driven  her  to  send  him  that 
unhappy  note.  Her  father  himself  need  never  be 
made  aware  that  she  knew  his  secret.  It  would  be 
forever  dead  and  buried! 

She  bade  'Lige  stop  at  the  post-office.  At  her 
aunt's  she  had  wrapped  the  letters  in  thick  wrapping- 
paper  and  sealed  and  tied  the  packet,  and  this  she 
now  addressed  to  her  father,  printing  the  words  in 
a  large,  round  hand.  Then  she  bought  some 
stamps,  affixed  them  at  one  of  the  desks  that  lined 
the  corridor  and  smudged  them  with  ink  to  simulate 
a  postmark.  Once  at  home  it  would  be  easy  to 
slip  the  parcel  among  his  evening  mail.  He  would 
believe  that  Craig  had  relented  of  his  purpose,  would 
destroy  the  letters,  and  the  danger  would  be  gone 
forever ! 


190      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

Lastly,  standing  in  the  thronging  thoroughfare, 
at  the  same  dusty  little  desk,  on  a  sheet  of  paper 
which  she  bought  at  the  stamp-window,  she  wrote 
to  Harry  Sevier: 

Forget  the  note  I  sent  you  yesterday.  Count  that 
it  was  never  written,  that  everything  —  everything! 
—  is  as  it  was  when  we  sat  on  the  porch  together  the 
day  before.  I  can't  write  the  rest  —  but  come  to 
me  to-night,  and  I  will  tell  you. 

ECHO. 

She  sealed  and  addressed  this  —  as  an  after- 
thought, marking  it  urgent  —  and  went  out  to  the 
carriage.  A  few  minutes  later  the  horses  drew  up 
again,  this  time  before  the  populous  office-building 
that  held  Harry's  offices. 

She  climbed  the  stair  slowly,  her  heart  hammer- 
ing. She  intended  to  hand  the  note  to  his  clerk. 
If  Harry  had  gone  home,  it  would  be  sent  to  him 
there.  On  the  landing  she  stopped,  her  breath  com- 
ing quickly.  The  mahogany  door  was  open  and  she 
could  see  a  little  way  into  the  outer  office.  If  she 
came  face  to  face  with  him,  what  should  she  say? 

But  no  sound  of  voices,  no  rustle  of  paper  or 
scratch  of  pen,  came  to  her.  She  went  nearer  — 
the  place  was  empty.  She  took  a  hesitant  step  or 
two  into  the  room.  The  door  of  the  inner  office 
was  open  —  that  was  empty  too,  and  its  big  desk 
closed.  Harry  was  not  there,  but  the  clerk,  at  least, 
should  not  be  far  off,  as  the  door  had  stood  wide. 


THE  BROKEN  PICTURE  191 

She  went  closer  and  peered  into  the  inner  office. 
Facing  her  from  the  wall  was  a  small  cabinet,  its 
door,  from  which  splinters  of  opaque  glass  were 
scattered  about  the  rugs,  smashed  through  as  if  by 
a  heavy  blow.  Beneath  it,  on  the  desk-top,  was  a 
black  bottle  and  a  stained  glass,  tipped  on  its  side. 

All  at  once  she  started.  She  had  caught  sight  of 
something  that  lay  in  the  fire-place.  She  went  and 
picked  it  up :  it  was  a  picture  of  herself  —  one  she 
had  never  known  Harry  possessed  —  a  photograph 
of  her  portrait  that  had  been  hung  in  a  certain  spring 
salon  in  Paris.  It  had  been  framed  in  silver,  but 
frame  and  picture  had  been  broken  across,  savagely 
torn  and  twisted  into  a  remnant  of  metal  and  card- 
board. 

She  dropped  the  defaced  thing  with  a  little  cry 
and  caught  a  hand  to  her  breast.  What  must  he 
have  been  thinking  in  that  moment  of  ruthless  de- 
struction? It  had  been  after  he  had  read  her  note 
to  him !  Her  cheeks  flamed.  Did  he  now  despise 
her  for  what  he  had  thought  her  flippancy,  or  hate 
her  for  having  taken  his  love  only  to  throw  it  away 
like  an  old  glove  ?  As  she  looked  again  at  the  riven 
cabinet  and  the  bottle  on  the  desk,  a  shiver  of  dread 
seized  her.  From  the  silent  symbols  there  stood 
forth  outlines  that  frightened  her. 

She  went  slowly  out  to  the  hall,  the  letter  she  had 
intended  to  leave  crushed  up  in  her  hand.  At  the 
top  of  the  stair  stood  a  tall  window  and  she  halted 
in  its  embrasure  and  leaned  against  the  sill,  hearing 


i92     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

dully  the  muffled  clack  of  the  street  and  trying  to 
see  a  mental  way  through  the  confusing  conjectures 
that  were  leaping,  like  lurking  beasts  of  prey,  upon 
her.  As  she  stood  there  voices  sounded  behind  her, 
coming  from  the  other  end  of  the  hall  —  the  clerk 
was  returning  with  a  comrade  : 

"  *  No,'  says  he.  *  Don't  know  when  I'll  come 
back.'  Thought  he  looked  a  bit  off  coloured,  too. 
Told  me  to  close  up  the  office  till  I  heard  from  him, 
and  not  to  forward  anything.  Rum  go,  eh?  " 

"  Seems  like  mighty  poor  business,"  ventured  the 
other. 

The  clerk  sniffed.  "  Business !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  Much  Sevier  cares  about  that !  A  man  with  a 
brain  like  his  and  a  silver  tongue  to  boot  doesn't 
need  business!  But  after  that  speech  of  his  the 
other  day  I  should  think  he'd  sit  tight  as  wax  to 
those  Civic  Club  people.  They're  going  to  make 
a  real  campaign  of  it  and  he  could  get  on  the  ticket 
sure.  It'd  be  a  cinch f  Why  he  wants  to  light  out 
abroad  somewhere  beats  me!  Well,  /  don't  care 
how  long  he  stays.  I'm  going  to  shut  up  the  shebang 
to-night  and  put  in  some  good  licks  for  my  law- 
examination." 

They  entered  the  office  and  the  door  closed  upon 
their  voices. 

Echo  stood  motionless,  looking  down  into  the 
street.  Harry  had  gone  away !  He  had  gone  with 
despair  and  anger,  or  worse  than  anger,  against  her 
in  his  heart  leaving  behind  him  only  that  mangled 


THE  BROKEN  PICTURE  193 

portrait  and  that  ominous  bottle  on  the  desk! 
Where  had  he  gone,  and  when  should  she  see  him 
again? 

Just  across  the  way  a  knot  of  people  was  gather- 
ing in  front  of  a  newspaper  bulletin-board  whereon 
a  great  white  sheet  was  being  pasted,  and  her  gaze 
— •  first  mechanically,  then  with  a  start  of  shrinking 
comprehension  —  read  the  staring  headlines  that 
had  been  roughly  lettered  upon  it: 

CAMERON  CRAIG  SHOT  DOWN  BY  BURGLAR 

DESPERATE    MIDNIGHT    ENCOUNTER    IN    FINANCIER'S 

LIBRARY 

WOUNDED   MAN   UNCONSCIOUS   BUT   STILL   ALIVE 
MYSTERIOUS   WOMAN   INVOLVED 

Cameron  Craig  was  not  deadl  If  he  lived,  he 
must  one  day  learn  that  the  letters  were  gone  from 
the  safe.  Would  he  not  then  connect  her  with  their 
disappearance?  What  would  he  do?  She  was 
aware,  unhappily,  to  what  lengths  he  was  capable  of 
going !  Even  though  the  letters  were  not  his,  would 
he  accuse  her  of  stealing  them  —  her? 

As  she  drove  away  the  last  two  lines  seemed  to 
imprint  themselves  on  her  eyeballs  in  monstrous  sym- 
bols of  flame. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE   WOMAN   WHO  KNEW 

JUNE  came  with  its  gold-born  days,  its  pas- 
sionate bird-songs  and  scents  of  roses,  its 
shimmer  of  willow  and  pine  and  burnished  lus- 
tre of  down-bent  holly-leaves  and  its  evening  mists 
wreathing  the  tall  garden  shrubs  like  wedding-veils. 
But  the  beauty  and  passion  of  the  throbbing  season 
came  to  Echo  with  a  sense  of  mockery. 

The  night  of  her  return  she  had  carried  out  her 
plan  as  regarded  the  letters  and  her  father  had  be- 
lieved the  package  had  arrived  with  his  mail.  When 
a  little  later  he  had  told  her  that  Cameron  Craig  had 
sent  him  tlie  letter  whose  publication  had  been  threat- 
ened, years  had  seemed  fallen  from  his  shoulders. 
She  had  been  content  that  he  should  deem  the  act  sig- 
nificant of  the  other's  better  nature  emerging  from 
the  slough  of  an  ignoble  temptation  —  satisfied  to 
know  that  in  his  mind  the  fact  that  it  should  have  been 
one  of  the  last  acts  Craig  had  performed  before  the 
tragedy,  had  invested  it  with  a  quality  of  the  fateful 
and  foreordained.  Her  own  thought  was  absorbed 
with  other  things. 

She  had  read  avidly,  though  with  unspeakable 
dread  and  loathing,  the  newspaper  accounts  of  the 
194 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  KNEW         195 

affair.  The  refusal  of  the  arrested  man  to  tell  his 
name  or  where  he  came  from,  or  to  explain  in  the 
slightest  detail  —  except  brazenly  to  deny  any  part 
in  it  —  the  crime  which  had  set  the  city  in  which  it 
had  occurred  agog,  had  been  duly  chronicled;  but 
the  condition  of  the  victim  —  since  Cameron  Craig 
was  a  power  in  the  community  —  had  absorbed  a 
greater  part  of  the  popular  interest,  and  the  daily 
bulletins  of  his  physicians  had  called  forth  far  more 
comment  than  the  unknown  criminal  whom  he  had 
identified  as  the  man  who  had  shot  him.  She  had 
felt  a  great  relief,  also,  in  the  knowledge  that  Craig 
had  declared  that  he  had  not  known  his  feminine 
visitor;  and  while  the  dread  had  inevitably  lifted 
that  when  he  discovered  the  loss  of  the  letters  he 
might  betray  her,  it  had  faded  at  length  in  the  cer- 
tainty that,  though  he  lived,  the  brain-injury  had  left 
him  with  clouded  consciousness.  Day  after  day  he 
had  lain  voiceless,  the  outer  injury  gradually  and 
surely  yielding  to  the  medicaments  of  healing,  but  the 
brain  lapsed  into  a  semblance  of  vacuity,  inert  and 
unresponsive,  a  mild  phantom  of  the  old  Craig,  the 
bodily  functions  become  mere  mechanism,  the  mind 
blank  and  fallow,  its  inner  hurt  waiting  a  diagnosis 
beyond  the  skill  of  local  practitioners. 

But  though  the  secret  Echo  carried  shut  within  her 
breast  thus  grew  less  painful  with  the  passage  of 
time,  another  dread  was  slowly  drawing  out  of  her 
heart  its  warmth  and  glow.  This  was  the  deeper 
hurt  of  Harry  Sevier's  absence. 


196      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

Going  about  her  daily  affairs  she  thought  of  him 
without  ceasing.  She  never  drove  through  the 
streets  that  her  gaze  did  not  search  the  busy  pave- 
ments —  never  passed  the  building  that  held  his  of- 
fice that  her  eyes  did  not  lift  fearfully  to  its  blank 
and  blinded  windows  —  never  heard  the  postman's 
brisk  step  on  the  porch  that  her  heart  did  not  beat 
chokingly.  Where  had  he  gone?  Chilly  knew  of 
no  one  who  had  received  a  letter  from  him.  Aunt 
Judy,  his  cook,  was  as  ignorant  as  she.  She  had 
even  interviewed  Suzuki,  but  it  had  been  plain  that 
the  Japanese  could  tell  nothing. 

The  recollection  of  the  bottle  and  the  overturned 
glass  she  had  seen  in  his  office  recurred  to  her  again 
and  again,  with  all  their  bitter  suggestions  of  surren- 
der, relapse  and  demoralisation.  Could  it  be  that 
he  had  thrown  away  his  hard-earned  victory,  hurled 
himself  again  into  the  pit  from  which  he  had  so  pain- 
fully climbed,  which  now  might  hold  him  forever? 
And  coupled  with  this  sickening  thought  came  the  re- 
flection: what  if  Harry  should  die,  far  away  some- 
where, perhaps  in  some  foreign  country,  without 
seeing  her  again,  without  ever  knowing?  There 
were  hours,  too,  when,  woman-like,  she  wondered 
whether  he  had  cared  so  much:  whether  he  had  not 
found  comfort  in  absence  and  given  his  love  else- 
where. 

Her  cheeks  grew  paler  day  by  day,  and  in  spite  of 
herself  her  step  lagged  and  lassitude  grew  upon  her. 
Often  she  felt  her  father's  anxious  look  and  knew 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  KNEW         197 

that  her  mother,  in  her  stately  and  undemonstrative 
way  was  deeply  disturbed.  She  took  without  pro- 
test the  tonics  Doctor  Southall  prescribed,  but  they 
brought  little  betterment,  and,  as  physicians  will,  he 
at  length  began  to  talk  of  a  sea-trip.  In  her  growing 
apathy  plans  of  this  sort  meant  nothing  to  Echo,  but 
she  believed  Harry  had  gone  abroad,  and  the  chance 
that  they  might  meet,  however  slender  it  might  be, 
called  to  her.  When  Mrs.  Spottiswoode,  therefore, 
announced  her  annual  migration  to  Paris  for  her 
winter's  wardrobe,  it  was  arranged  that  Echo  should 
make  the  voyage  under  her  chaperonage. 

Meanwhile  the  date  had  arrived  for  Echo's  usual 
summer's  visit  to  Nancy  Langham  in  the  neighbour- 
ing capital.  Ordinarily  a  stay  at  the  home  of  the 
girl  of  whom  she  was  so  fond,  would  have  been  some- 
thing to  look  forward  to  with  unmixed  delight. 
Now,  however,  it  had  become  a  thing  to  shrink  from. 
To  walk  those  streets  —  perhaps  to  see  again  the 
house  whose  very  memory  had  been  such  an  anguish 
to  her  —  she  would  gladly  have  evaded  this.  But 
when  Nancy's  letters  promised  to  pass  from  pleading 
to  epistolary  tears,  she  at  length  yielded  and  late  Au- 
gust found  her  the  Langhams'  guest  for  a  final  week- 
end. 

As  she  dressed,  on  the  afternoon  of  her  arrival, 
there  was  a  tap  at  the  door  and  Nancy's  voice  said, 
"  May  I  come  in,  dear?  I  want  to  see  what  you  are 
going  to  wear." 


198      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

"  Yes,  come  in.     I'm  almost  ready." 

Echo  had  chosen  a  gown  of  black  tulle  with  a  gold 
rose  at  the  brocaded  girdle  and  Nancy  looked  at  her 
admiringly.  "  Gracious !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  That 
black  —  it  positively  sets  your  hair  on  fire!  It 
makes  you  so  pale,  though.  Do  put  a  little  dab  of 
pink  on  your  cheeks,  Echo;  you  make  me  look  posi- 
tively lurid  beside  you !  " 

There  was  some  truth  in  the  comparison,  for  the 
younger  girl  was  like  a  wild-rose,  quivering  with  life 
and  colour.  She  took  the  hare's-foot  and  came  to 
Echo  coaxingly.  "  Just  a  little  tinge  .  .  .  like  that. 
There !  Now  you  are  just  perfect." 

"  Who's  coming  to  tea,  Nancy?  " 

"  Oh,  only  a  handful  —  Mrs.  Moncure.  You 
met  her  last  year  —  and  Mr.  Meredith :  he's  the 
District  Attorney  —  and  the  Shirley  boys :  they're 
very  young  and  College-y  —  and  five  or  six  others. 
I  only  asked  a  few." 

{The  Shirleys  were  first  to  appear  and  were  fol- 
lowed by  Mrs.  Moncure,  a  mellow,  winy  woman 
with  a  white  gown  that  smacked  of  the  Rue  de  la 
Paix,  and  a  complexion  exquisitely  made  up.  She 
greeted  Nancy  with  a  smiling  graciousness,  nodded 
to  the  gentlemen,  and  sat  down  on  the  sofa  beside 
Echo. 

"  It  was  so  sweet  of  Nancy  to  ask  me  to  come," 
she  said.  "  I've  never  had  half  a  chance  to  chat  with 
you  before,  though  we  met  last  year  at  a  particularly 
stupid  reception  or  something.  This  is  so  much 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  KNEW         199 

more  home-y,  isn't  it?"  She  dropped  into  small- 
talk,  rippling  and  charming,  while  Nancy  poured  the 
tea,  and  when  Mr.  Meredith  presently  arrived  she 
presented  him. 

"  Our  District  Attorney,"  she  announced.  "  The 
Terror  of  the  Lawless !  " 

"  Now  don't  tell  me  I  look  a  terror !  "  said  he,  be- 
seechingly to  Echo.  "  I'm  a  most  mild-mannered 
man  in  private  life,  am  I  not,  Mrs.  Moncure?  " 

"  I'm  not  sure  yet  whether  I  can  give  you  a  charac- 
ter," she  answered.  "  I  haven't  seen  this  year's 
subscription-list  to  my  pet  charity." 

"Blackmail!"  the  other  asserted  indignantly. 
"  I'll  subpoena  you  all  as  witnesses.  And  this  is  how 
I  am  treated  for  protecting  you  from  criminality !  " 

"  I  like  that! "  exclaimed  Nancy  wickedly. 
"  When  burglars  hide  in  our  alcoves  and  jump  out 
and  shoot  us  when  we're  not  looking!  Poor  Mr. 
Craig !  /  think  you  ought  to  be  impeached,  or  im- 
pounded, or  whatever  they  call  it." 

He  laughed.  "  You  know  of  the  Craig  affair,  of 
course,  Miss  Allen,"  he  said,  turning. 

Echo  was  glad  for  the  touch  of  rouge  on  her 
cheeks.  "  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  Oh,  yes."  Her 
gaze  was  on  the  basket  of  tulips  on  the  tea-table,  but 
she  was  really  seeing  Craig's  smouldering  black  eyes 

—  the  lowering  brows  —  the  ruthless  clamped  lips 

—  as  she  had  seen  his  face  in  that  moment  of  reveal- 
ment  in  his  study. 

"  The  trial  of  the  man  who  shot  him  opened  to- 


200     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

day,"  continued  Meredith.  He  looked  again  at 
Nancy.  "  It's  up  to  the  police  to  prevent  burglaries, 
you  see.  My  part  comes  after  the  burglars  are 
caught.  I  point  the  moral  —  as  a  deterrent  to 
others  still  at  large." 

"  I  hope,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Moncure,  "  that  the 
moral  will  be  well  pointed  in  this  case.  I  didn't 
sleep  for  a  week  after  it  happened." 

"  I  shall  certainly  try  to  get  him  the  limit,"  de- 
clared the  attorney.  "  It'll  be  a  long  time  before 
you  need  fear  another  midnight  call  from  him,  Miss 
Langham.  While  you  are  at  the  matinee  to-morrow, 
please  remember  that  I  am  vociferating  frantically 
at  the  jury  in  your  behalf.  I  surely  deserve  a  cup  of 
tea  for  that,  don't  I  ?  " 

"  Well,  on  consideration,  perhaps  you  do,"  as- 
serted Nancy  judicially,  as  she  poured.  "  I'll  re- 
lent." 

She  sat  smiling,  her  dainty  hand  on  the  old  silver 
urn,  not  observing  how  the  smile  had  been  stricken 
from  Echo's  face.  Meredith  noted  the  latter's 
strained  look,  however,  and  said,  as  he  seated  him- 
self, "  You  mustn't  think  we  are  prone  to  such  melo- 
dramatics.  We  don't  have  them  often.  This  case 
is  somewhat  peculiar  from  the  fact  that  the  police 
can't  identify  the  man  we  are  trying.  We  don't 
know  who  he  is  or  what  is  his  record.  For  of  course 
he  has  one." 

"  But,"  interposed  Mrs.  Moncure,  "  I  thought 
criminals  were  always  photographed  —  don't  they 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  KNEW        201 

call  it  the  *  Rogues'  Gallery  '  ?  —  and  measured,  so 
they  could  be  identified." 

"  My  dear  lady,"  he  replied,  "  for  two  years  I've 
been  trying  to  bring  this  city  up  to  date  in  that  very 
thing.  The  state  has  the  Bertillon  system,  but  it's 
in  use  only  in  the  penitentiary,  as  a  permanent  record. 
The  data,  however,  should  be  taken  when  a  criminal 
is  arrested,  and  there  ought  to  be  a  system  of  ex- 
change of  these  records  with  all  penal  institutions. 
There  would  be  no  temptation  then  to  turn  a  bare- 
faced burglary,  coupled  with  felonious  assault,  into  a 
romantic  mystery,  as  this  man's  counsel,  my  friend, 
Mason,  judging  from  the  line  he  took  to-day,  will  try 
to  do." 

There  was  a  pause,  as  he  possessed  himself  of  an- 
other scone. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Mrs.  Moncure,  presently,  "  if 
we  shall  ever  know  who  she  was  —  the  woman  who 
was  with  Craig  when  he  was  shot." 

Meredith  laughed  a  little.  "  I  imagine  it's  not 
likely,"  he  returned.  "  He  has  declared  once  that  he 
didn't  know  her,  and  we  can  all  understand  her  own 
passionate  reticence  on  the  subject!  " 

Mrs.  Moncure  smiled  as  she  rose. 

"  Oh  Sin !     Oh  Sorrow !  and  Oh  Womankind !  (she  quoted) 
How  can  you  do  such  things  and  keep  your  fame, 

Unless  this  world,  and  t'other  too,  be  blind  ? 
Nothing  so  dear  as  an  unfilched  good  name! " 

For  Echo  the  smiling  words  were  barbed  and 
winged  with  a  painful  significance.  Again  and 


202      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

again,  as  she  chatted  mechanically  over  the  tea-cups, 
they  came  back  to  her,  coupled  with  the  memory  of 
the  stories  she  had  heard  of  Craig  —  the  whispered 
allusions  made  with  shrugs  and  lifted  eye-brows. 

As  she  lay  in  bed  that  night,  she  felt  her  hot  cheeks 
flush  through  the  darkness.  Could  the  world  think 
that  of  her  —  if  it  knew  ? 


CHAPTER  XXV 

ON   TRIAL 

THE  painful  suggestions  that  had  come  to 
Echo  over  the  teacups  possessed  her  next 
day,  when  she  drove  with  Nancy  in  the 
morning  and  in  the  afternoon,  alone,  selected  her 
final  steamer  purchases  —  for  she  had  made  her 
farewells  at  home  and  was  to  go  next  day  directly  to 
New  York,  meeting  Mrs.  Spottiswoode  on  board  the 
steamer.  She  was  restless  and  uneasy  and  the 
thought  of  the  trial  proceeding  at  the  court-house 
that  day  obsessed  her.  Here  she  was,  she,  Echo 
Allen,  save  for  the  escaped  marauders  themselves, 
the  only  one  who  had  witnessed  the  deed  whose 
imagined  details  the  law  was  now  laboriously  recon- 
structing only  a  block  away. 

The  thought  brought  a  burning  self-consciousness 
which  began  to  be  threaded  by  a  fearful  curiosity. 
She  was  feeling  the  repellent  fascination  that  the 
scene  of  a  hazardous  episode  ever  after  possesses  for 
the  secret  actor  in  it. 

Instinctively  the  lode-stone  had  drawn  her  steps  to 
Court  House  Square.  She  looked  across  at  the 
broad,  open  doorway.  Why  not  go  in?  She  had 
attended  trials  at  home.  She  could  find  a  place  in 
the  rear  where  she  would  be  unobserved.  For  an 
203 


204     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

instant  the  thought  crossed  her  mind  that  the  pris- 
oner might  recognise  her,  but  then  she  remembered 
that  on  that  night  at  Craig's  house  she  had  worn  a 
light  veil. 

She  crossed  the  square  quickly,  and  with  sudden 
decision  went  up  the  steps  and  into  the  building.  An 
usher  sat  on  a  stool  by  a  door  that  stood  ajar  and  be- 
fore she  knew  it  he  had  pushed  it  open  and  she  found 
herself  in  the  court-room. 

In  that  room,  unguessed  by  all  who  had  watched 
and  listened  during  the  dragging  trial  that  was  now 
rushing  swiftly  to  end,  weird  forces  had  been  con- 
tending. In  touch  with  the  old,  familiar  things,  but 
with  a  high-coloured  unnaturalness,  Harry  Sevier 
had  stood  ceaseless  guard  over  his  secret,  every 
sense  and  instinct  on  the  qui  vive  to  minimise  the 
chances  of  recognition. 

The  night  of  his  arrest,  as  he  lay  sleepless  in  his 
police-cell,  he  had  thought  out  certain  obvious  de- 
tails of  the  game  he  intended  to  play  and  had  lost  no 
time  in  putting  them  into  practice.  He  had  worn 
his  waving  hair,  rather  long;  during  his  detention  he 
reversed  this  habit  and  instead  of  its  customary  part- 
ing, brushed  it  straight  back  from  his  forehead. 
Later  he  took  stock  of  personal  mannerisms  and  al- 
tered by  unrelaxing  watchfulness  and  determination 
the  natural  register  of  his  voice.  Always  his  mind 
had  retained  the  sense  of  fate  that  had  come  to  him 
when  he  sat  in  the  alcove  with  Paddy  the  Brick's 


ON  TRIAL  205 

pistol  clapped  to  his  temple.  Drink  had  driven  him 
to  that  strange  journey  that  had  ended  in  tragedy, 
but  had  it  not  been,  nevertheless,  some  over-ruling 
design  that  had  brought  him  to  Craig's  house,  where 
the  unbelievable  accident  of  his  presence  had  saved 
Echo  ?  But  for  that,  she  would  now  be  Craig's  wife, 
or  the  centre  of  a  wretched  scandal.  If  he  held  his 
course,  and  played  his  cards  as  they  fell,  perhaps 
fate  would  guide  him  still!  So  far  the  gipsy  ring 
had  brought  him  luck,  he  thought  whimsically,  and 
he  had  kept  it  on  his  finger. 

But  withal,  it  had  been  a  straining  interval. 
There  had  been,  first,  the  fear  that  Craig  would  die, 
casting  its  grisly  shadow  across  the  floor;  and  this 
had  woven  with  the  dread,  that  never  lessened,  of  the 
moment  when  he  should  recover  consciousness.  The 
first  morning's  newspapers  had  made  a  feature  of 
Craig's  assertion  that  he  did  not  know  the  woman 
who  had  awaited  his  coming  in  his  library ;  but  Harry 
held  in  his  mind  the  certainty  that  his  own  recogni- 
tion must  inevitably  result  in  Echo's  involvement. 

He  had  adopted  his  course  of  silence  because  it 
was  the  only  one  open  to  him  at  the  moment,  but  the 
event  had  justified  his  choice.  It  was  the  unexpected 
that  had  happened.  The  time-limit  of  the  law 
which  bounds  murder  had  passed,  and  Craig  was  still 
alive.  Nor  had  he  recovered  consciousness.  But 
even  with  these  assurances,  Harry  had  had  hourly 
to  fight  with  the  dread  of  some  accidental  confronta- 
tion which  should  pierce  the  screen  and  this  dread 


206     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

had  infinitely  increased  with  the  opening  of  the  trial, 
when  he  became  perforce  the  cynosure  of  hundreds  of 
curious  eyes. 

But  here  also  fate  had  been  kind.  It  was  now  the 
second  day  of  the  proceedings,  for  Harry's  personal 
qualities,  no  less  than  his  strange  pertinacity,  had 
roused  a  keen  professional  interest  in  the  attorney 
who  had  been  assigned  to  defend  him,  and  the  latter 
had  made  a  fight  which  his  client,  whose  legal  expe- 
rience judged  the  outcome  certain,  would  gladly  have 
exchanged  for  the  inept  blunderings  of  the  veriest 
tyro. 

However,  no  chance  encounter  had  betrayed  him 
and  as  the  District  Attorney  rose  for  his  final  clinch- 
ing of  the  nail  of  evidence,  Harry  had  felt  a  great 
relief  that  the  ordeal  was  so  nearly  finished. 

Almost  the  great  danger  was  past!  With  his 
conviction  and  the  passing  of  sentence  upon  him,  the 
Judicial  arm  of  the  law  would  have  delivered  him  to 
the  Executive.  Danger  of  publicity  would  be  over, 
and  Echo  might  be  told  the  truth,  without  danger  of 
recoil  upon  herself.  A  thousand  times  in  his  cell  he 
had  wondered  how  he  should  accomplish  this.  In 
some  way  it  could  be  brought  about  —  some  safe  and 
secret  way  —  just  how  he  would  have  leisure  to  de- 
cide. No  one,  not  even  Mason,  his  counsel,  need  be 
trusted  with  the  significant  secret  that  had  such  power 
to  blast.  She  must  be  well  instructed  so  that  no 
false  step  could  mar  his  plan.  She  must  take  no  one 
into  her  confidence  —  must  tell  her  story  privately  to 


ON  TRIAL  207 

the  Governor,  who  had  known  her  from  her  child- 
hood. He  was  a  just  and  discreet  man  and  Harry 
did  not  doubt  the  outcome.  His  own  story  could 
supplement  hers,  and  after  a  sufficient  interval,  ex- 
ecutive pardon  would  quietly  release  him.  He  could 
step  back  into  his  old  niche,  and  all  would  be  as  be- 
fore. Even  if  Craig  recovered,  he  would  be  power- 
less, since  an  accusation  could  not  lie  against  a  par- 
doned man,  and  Craig  would  not  bring  a  charge  that 
was  at  once  bootless  and  incredible.  Nor  would  he 
wreak  an  empty  revenge  upon  Echo.  He  had  once 
declared  that  he  had  not  known  the  woman  in  the  li- 
brary, and,  since  she  was  lost  to  him  in  any  case,  he 
would  not  hazard  a  public  reversal  of  his  testimony 
that  all  would  unite  to  call  dastardly.  The  one  thing 
Craig  valued  which  men  in  the  mass  could  give  him, 
aside  from  power  and  money,  was  his  place  in  the 
social  sun,  and  he  would  not  risk  this.  In  the  publi- 
cation of  the  letter,  or  letters,  that  would  have  in- 
volved her  father,  he  doubtless  would  not  have  been 
publicly  known;  in  this  matter  he  would  run  the 
gauntlet  of  popular  southern  opinion  and  would  be 
well  aware  that  the  act  would  damn  him.  So  Harry 
told  himself.  The  real  story  would  be  buried,  and 
the  world  —  his  world  and  Echo's  —  would  never 
know! 

Thus  he  was  thinking  as  he  listened  dully  to  the 
prosecutor's  scathing  resume.  His  elbow  was  on 
the  long  table  by  which  he  sat,  his  brow  in  his  hand, 
shielding  his  eyes  from  the  sunlight  that  sent  darting 


208      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

arrows  across  the  cool,  dim  room  as  the  window- 
shade  waved  in  the  light  breeze.  He  could  not  see 
the  door  at  the  rear  of  the  room  swing  open,  nor  the 
figure  of  the  woman  who  entered  —  to  pause,  mo- 
mentarily confused  in  the  quick  transition  from  the 
sunny  Square  to  the  shadow  of  the  interior. 

Echo's  heart  was  beating  hard  as  she  slipped  into 
a  vacant  seat  next  the  aisle,  conscious  that  the  man 
who  was  speaking  was  Meredith,  whom  she  had  met 
at  tea  the  day  before,  and  that  he  was  closing  his  final 
speech  for  the  prosecution.  She  looked  about  her, 
at  the  jury  who  seemed  apathetic  and  a  trifle  bored, 
at  the  Judge  who  was  writing  perfunctorily  on  the 
pad  before  him,  and  then  her  gaze  slipped,  half- 
stealthily,  to  the  long  table  before  the  bar,  where 
the  prisoner  should  be  sitting.  But  though  she 
leaned  forward  to  look,  she  could  not  see  him  for  the 
intervening  figures.  Then,  suddenly,  the  deliberate, 
judicial  utterance  of  the  District  Attorney  caught  her 
attention.  He  was  rounding  to  a  final  period  and 
the  meaning  of  what  he  was  saying  smote  through 
her  self-command  to  the  last,  inner  corner  of  her 
shrinking  consciousness  and  made  the  room  whirl 
about  her: 

"The  counsel  for  the  defence  has  attempted  to 
read  a  romantic  meaning  into  the  obduracy  with 
which  this  thief  and  would-be  murderer  has  held  to 
his  policy  of  silence.  He  has  invited  you  to  believe 
that  this  silence  indicates  a  noble  desire  to  shield  a 
woman's  reputation.  The  name  of  a  woman  who 


ON  TRIAL  209 

thrusts  herself,  unexpected  and  unattended,  into  a 
man's  house  at  dead  of  night!  The  name  of  a 
woman  the  innocence  of  whose  errand  is  effectually 
denied  by  her  precipitate  flight  and  her  craven 
hiding!  " 

Echo  sank  back  into  her  seat,  breathless.  She 
listened  to  the  brief,  conventional  charge,  saw  the 
jurors  file  out,  heard  the  stir  and  movement  of  relax- 
ation sweep  over  the  room,  yet  she  was  unconscious 
of  the  lapse  of  time.  The  public,  open  declaration 
had  seemed  to  set  the  final  flaming  seal  upon  the  in- 
cident, voicing,  as  if  with  a  monster  siren,  the  shame- 
ful meaning!  She  had  cringed  at  Mrs.  Moncure's 
smiling  innuendo;  now  the  scathing  indictment  was 
burning  itself  on  her  brain.  "  A  woman  who 
thrusts  herself  unexpected  and  unattended  into  a 
man's  house  at  dead  of  night! " —  the  words 
seemed  to  stab  her  over  and  over  like  poisoned  dag- 
gers. She  was  that  —  that  woman !  She  imagined 
herself  rising  in  that  suffocating  room  and  saying  dis- 
tinctly, "  It  is  I  he  said  that  of  —  I,  Echo  Allen!  " 
She  saw  herself  on  the  witness-stand,  heckled  and 
badgered,  faltering  an  unbelievable  story  to  sceptical 
ears.  There  was  rolling  over  her  an  overwhelming 
dread,  and  her  hands  had  clenched  till  the  nails 
struck  purple  crescents  into  her  palms. 

She  became  aware  suddenly  that  the  room  had 
hushed,  the  jury  was  re-entering.  She  hardly  heard 
the  foreman's  crisp  "  Guilty,  your  Honour !  "  She 
was  trembling,  there  was  a  scent  in  her  nostrils  like 


210     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

the  fumes  of  poppies,  and  the  room  seemed  to  be 
swaying  to  and  fro.  She  turned  away  her  head,  dar- 
ing to  look  no  longer. 

"  Prisoner  at  the  bar,  stand  up !  " —  the  clerk's 
metallic  admonition  seemed  to  come  from  far  away. 
She  strove  to  look  now,  but  a  swimming  dizziness 
was  upon  her  and  the  shadows  of  the  room  were 
turning  black.  She  had  never  fainted  in  her  life,  and 
the  thought  of  fainting  now  filled  her  with  terror. 
She  rose  to  her  feet,  fighting  back  the  sickness  with 
all  her  strength,  stepped  into  the  aisle,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment more  the  fresh  outer  air,  sweet  and  reviving, 
struck  her  quivering  face. 

Her  going  had  made  no  stir,  had  been  unnoted, 
perhaps,  by  a  dozen  in  the  court-room.  She  could 
not  guess  that  in  the  instant  she  had  risen,  with  blank 
eyes  and  unsteady  feet,  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  had 
half-turned  and  for  a  breath  his  gaze  had  fastened 
upon  her  face. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE    HAUNTER   OF   THE    SHADOW 

BUT  for  the  iron  control  to  which  he  had 
schooled  himself,  Sevier,  in  that  second,  must 
have  made  a  panic  movement  of  betrayal. 
He  dragged  his  eyes  away  instantly,  his  heart  beating 
as  if  it  must  burst,  as  the  deliberate  judicial  accents 
struck  across  the  courtroom : 

"  I  have  no  desire  to  say  anything  to  add  to  your 
anxiety  of  mind.  The  rulings  of  the  court,  if  they 
have  had  any  bias,  have  not  leaned  to  the  side  of 
the  Commonwealth.  There  is  no  legal  right  that 
has  not  been  afforded  you  and  if  you  have  not  chosen 
to  meet  the  evidence  with  candour  it  is  to  be  pre- 
sumed that  it  is  because  candour  could  have  lent  no 
degree  of  mitigation  to  the  circumstances.  The 
jury  has  found  you  guilty  as  charged,  and  I  should 
be  doing  less  than  my  duty,  if  I  allowed  sympathy 
based  upon  imagined  facts  to  subtract  from  the  full 
legal  penalty.  The  judgment  of  this  court  is,  there- 
fore, that  you  be  imprisoned  in  the  state's  peniten- 
tiary during  a  period  of  twenty  years." 

Harry  hardly  heard  the  pronouncement  for  the 
mental  confusion  that  held  him.  Echo  knew!  All 
the  time  while  he  had  been  fighting  back  recognition, 


212      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

she  had  known!  How  had  she  guessed?  Had  his 
voice,  perhaps,  that  night  when  he  had  saved  her,  be- 
trayed him?  He  remembered  her  white  and  agon- 
ised look  when  he  had  thrust  her  from  the  door  of 
Craig's  house  and  bade  her  run.  A  doubt,  coupled 
with  his  absence  from  home,  would  have  driven  her, 
somehow  or  other,  to  discover  the  truth.  She  had 
been  near  him  often,  perhaps,  realising  the  situation, 
conscious  of  what  he  had  been  striving  for,  knowing 
that  only  silence  for  a  time  could  save  them  both! 
In  that  instant's  view  he  had  seen  the  look  of  suffer- 
ing and  sickness  in  her  face.  In  these  long  weeks  — 
if,  indeed,  she  had  known  it  so  long  —  what  an 
anguish  of  anxiety  she  must  have  been  enduring ! 

As  the  voice  ceased  and  he  sat  down,  through  the 
warm  wave  that  was  coursing  over  him,  Harry  felt 
a  chilling  realisation  of  the  risk  she  had  run  in  com- 
ing there.  An  impulsive  word,  an  indiscreet  look, 
and  suspicion  might  have  been  roused  leading  to  dis- 
covery. Sitting  before  this  bar  he  was  only  an  un- 
known criminal,  a:  submerged  "  John  Doe  "  on  whom 
the  make-shift  expediency  of  the  law  spent  itself. 
But  the  veil  once  lifted,  he  would  be  Harry  Sevier, 
club-man  and  lawyer  whose  pleading  folk  had  once 
flocked  to  hear,  now  caught  in  the  vise  of  the  law  and 
proven  thief  and  degenerate. 

In  the  emptying  room  he  felt  the  cool  hand  of  his 
counsel  touch  his  own,  and  followed  him  —  with  a 
watchful  deputy-sheriff  now  in  hand-reach  —  to  a 
side  door  that  opened  into  a  chamber  at  the  rear  of 


THE  HAUNTER  OF  THE  SHADOW     213 

the  court-room.  On  the  threshold  the  lawyer  turned 
to  the  sheriff. 

"  There's  no  hurry,  Jerry,"  he  said  peevishly. 
"  You  wait  out  here  a  few  minutes.  The  old  man 
himself  is  coming.  He  wants  to  see  him." 

"  Mr.  Mason,"  said  Sevier  as  the  other  closed 
the  door.  "  I  shall  not  pretend  to  thank  you  for 
your  interest  and  kindness." 

The  man  of  briefs  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"  There's  nothing  to  thank  me  for,"  he  answered 
briskly.  "  Now,  if  I  had  cleared  you  — " 

Harry  nodded.  "  Naturally,  you  couldn't  do  that. 
You  were  at  a  disadvantage." 

"  Thanks  to  you !  " 

"  Yes,  I  didn't  assist  you  much,  I  know." 

"  Didn't  help  me  at  all,"  came  back  in  a  growl. 

"  No  doubt  you  think  I  might  have,"  said  Harry. 
"  But  please  don't  count  me  unresponsive.  It  is  only 
that  the  logic  of  the  situation  appealed  to  me  as  un- 
answerable. But  it  is  a  privilege,"  he  added,  with 
the  glimmer  of  a  smile,  "  to  have  been  associated 
with  you." 

Mason  looked  at  him  with  a  twist  to  his  saturnine 
lips.  "  You  have  been  my  most  remarkable  client," 
he  said.  "  It  would  have  pleased  me  to  have  gotten 
you  off.  But  unluckily  for  you,  I'm  no  Harry  Se- 
vier." 

It  was  fortunate  that  the  face  of  the  man  beside 
him  was  turned  away,  or  he  might  have  seen  it  go 
white  and  startled.  "  Tm  sure  I  lost  no  chance  I 


2i4     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

might  have  had,"  said  the  other  slowly,  "  even 
though  you're  not  Harry  Sevier,  whoever  he 
is." 

The  other  laughed  shortly.  "  He's  a  lawyer  in 
the  next  state.  I  heard  him  plead  once.  He  didn't 
bother  with  evidence!  He'd  clear  Judas  Iscariot 
with  that  silver  tongue  of  his!  Ah,  well  .  .  .  " 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  again,  and  turned  to  a 
closed  door.  "  I'll  see  if  the  old  man  is  ready." 

"  One  moment."  Harry  had  drawn  the  ring 
with  the  square  uncut  emerald  from  his  finger,  and 
now  he  held  it  out.  "  I  should  consider  it  a  favour, 
if  you  would  take  this  —  it  has  no  particular  value, 
I  am  sorry  to  say  —  as  a  little  remembrance." 

Mason  turned  the  ring  over  in  his  hands.  Under 
the  churlish  pose  a  guilty  flush  stole  up  his  lean,  ec- 
centric face  that  betrayed  unmistakably  the  friend- 
liness and  liking  he  had  learned  for  the  man  whose 
plight  angered  and  whose  attitude  puzzled  him. 
"  Thank  you !  "  he  said,  and  a  sudden  smile  made  the 
grim  demeanour  all  at  once  soft  and  human.  He 
slipped  it  on  his  finger.  "  Thank  you !  I  shall  be 
proud  to  keep  it." 

He  opened  the  door  and  Sevier  followed  him  into 
the  room  adjoining. 

There,  looking  out  of  the  window,  the  fingers  of 
one  thin  hand  in  his  plenteous  blue-grey  beard,  the 
other  behind  him,  stood  the  Governor  of  the  State. 
Harry  felt  a  thrill  run  through  him.  He  knew  the 
older  man  by  sight,  for  they  had  met  once  casually 


THE  HAUNTER  OF  THE  SHADOW     215 

in  the  past.  Had  Echo  already  spoken?  Did  the 
other  know? 

"  Governor,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  I  beg  to  present 
my  client,  whose  cause  I  have  so  poorly  repre- 
sented." 

In  the  deep  grey,  kindly  eyes  that  were  studying 
him  attentively,  Harry  saw  instantly,  however,  that 
there  was  no  hidden  knowledge,  and  his  heart,  that 
had  leaped  quickly,  dropped  into  measured  beating. 
He  bowed. 

"  My  counsel  did  wonders,"  he  said,  "  but  the  day 
of  miracles  is  past." 

The  reply  was  simple  enough,  but  the  visitor  un- 
consciously looked  his  surprise.  He  had  been  pre- 
pared for  something  in  a  way  unusual,  for  Mason 
had  employed  his  intimacy  to  inspire  something  of 
his  own  keen  interest  in  his  client.  Face  to  face 
with  the  latter,  the  Governor  understood  the  law- 
yer's puzzlement.  Here  was  a  man  who  had  been 
arrested  as  a  house-breaker  and  who,  caught  in  the 
very  act,  had  shot  a  man  down.  Yet  he  found  it 
suddenly  credible,  as  Mason  had  declared,  that  the 
man  was  no  ordinary  burglar,  was  indeed,  or  had 
been,  a  gentleman.  But  there  were  gentlemen- 
thieves!  He  met  Harry's  tone  with  noncommittal 
courtesy. 

"  You  will  not  consider  this  an  intrusion,  I  hope," 
he  said.  "  My  friend  here  was  anxious  that  I 
should  see  you.  He  has  been  deeply  concerned  in 
your  case." 


2i6     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

"  It  is  a  pleasure,"  Harry  replied  simply.  "  He 
has  been  put  to  considerable  pains,  in  which  there  is 
very  little  credit,  I  am  afraid." 

"  His  interest,"  the  Governor  went  on,  "  as  he 
has  assured  me,  arises  from  a  conviction  that  there 
is  some  hidden  element  in  the  affair  that,  if  it  had 
been  brought  out,  might  have  put  a  different  face 
upon  it." 

Harry  bowed  but  did  not  answer. 

"  You  have  a  good  reason,  I  take  it,  for  main- 
taining the  silence  as  to  yourself  which  my  friend 
here  finds  so  difficult?  " 

"  The  very  best,"  said  Harry  grimly. 

The  Governor  mused  a  moment.  "  You  will  par- 
don me,  I  am  sure,  if  I  ask  you  one  other  question. 
Have  you  ever  been  in  prison?  " 

"  No,"  said  Harry. 

"  Have  you  committed  crime  —  in  the  past?  " 

"  As  the  law  counts  it,  no." 

He  looked  the  Governor  steadily  in  the  eyes  as 
he  spoke  and  the  other,  a  keen  judge  of  men,  with  a 
knowledge,  bred  of  long  life  and  observation,  of  the 
workings  of  the  human  conscience,  felt  a  strange  in- 
clination to  believe.  Yet  for  every  criminal  there 
must  be  a  first  crime.  Given  a  good  family  name 
and  the  remnant  of  a  conscience,  the  man's  insistence 
could  be  accounted  for !  With  a  little  sigh  he  turned 
to  Mason. 

"  Shall  I  see  you  at  the  Castlemans  to-night?  "  he 
asked  as  they  shook  hands. 


THE  HAUNTER  OF  THE  SHADOW     217 

"  I'm  dining  at  the  Langhams,"  Mason  replied. 
"  It's  a  farewell  dinner  for  Miss  Allen." 

"A  charming  girl,  Echo!"  said  the  Governor. 
"  I've  known  her  since  she  was  a  child.  A  farewell, 
did  you  say?  Is  her  visit  over?  " 

"  Yes,  she's  off  to  Europe  to-morrow." 

The  lawyer  went  with  the  Governor  to  the  door 
and  stood  a  moment  looking  after  him  as  he  crossed 
the  lawn  to  his  carriage.  He  did  not  see  the  look 
that  had  suddenly  slipped  to  the  face  of  the  man 
standing  behind  him  —  a  look  mingled  of  sudden 
wonder  and  questioning  disquiet. 

To  Europe !  Echo  ?  Was  she  going  away  now 
.  .  .  knowing  it  all  ...  knowing  what  he  had 
passed  through,  what  lay  before  him  ?  Going  with- 
out written  word  or  secret  sign  to  him? 

Harry  felt  a  strange  sinking  of  the  heart.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if  a  cold  shadow  had  suddenly 
fallen  across  the  room  —  a  shadow  in  which  lurked 
something  vague  and  formless,  something  whose  ex- 
istence his  faith  denied,  yet  which  stood  silently  star- 
ing at  him  with  a  cruel  and  terrifying  smile. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE    END   OF   THE   JOURNEY 

SOME  miles  beyond  the  skirt  of  the  city,  on  the 
dusty  highway,  stood  a  vast  wall  of  stone 
built  four-square,  along  whose  top,  seen 
breast-high,  men  in  dingy  khaki  patrolled  back  and 
forth  with  rifles  on  their  shoulders.  Fronting  the 
road  was  a  great  barred  gate,  with  an  arched  top,  set 
in  the  wall.  This  opened  on  a  narrow  paved  court 
at  one  side  of  which  was  a  two  storied  frame 
building,  whose  door  was  marked  with  the  word 
"  warden." 

Before  this  door  the  next  afternoon  Harry  Sevier 
stood  with  a  sheriff.  The  latter  knocked  and  a 
heavy-featured  man  came  out.  "  Well,  Warden," 
said  the  sheriff,  "  I've  brought  you  another  boarder. 
Here's  his  papers." 

The  other  examined  the  documents,  took  a  foun- 
tain-pen from  his  pocket  and  signed  one  —  a  form 
of  receipt  —  and  handed  it  back.  "  All  right,"  he 
said  briefly,  and  rushing  open  the  door,  motioned  the 
new  arrival  to  enter. 

When  Harry  emerged,  an  hour  later,  under  the 

care  of  a  uniformed  turn-key,  he  wore  trousers  and 

jacket  of  coarse  fulled  cloth  with  horizontal  stripes 

of  black  and  yellowish-grey  —  the  badge  of  the  con- 

218 


THE  END  OF  THE  JOURNEY       219 

vict.  Under  his  visored  cap  his  crisp  black  hair  had 
been  clipped  close  to  the  skin.  And  in  the  upper 
office  a  trusty  who  acted  as  clerk  was  filling  in  on  an 
indexed  card  the  physical  measurements  which,  with 
the  number  he  wore  on  a  leathern  strap  about  his 
upper  arm,  constituted  the  formula  by  which  here- 
after was  to  be  known  the  man  who  had  once  been 
Harry  Sevier. 

In  the  centre  of  the  great  walled  space  reared  an 
ancient  circular  structure  of  brick.  It  was  like  a 
huge  bee-hive.  His  conductor  led  Harry  to  a  com- 
partment on  the  lower  tier  and  unlocked  an  iron 
door.  "  This  is  yours,  239,"  he  said. 

Harry  entered.  He  heard  the  door  clang  behind 
him  and  the  footsteps  retire  down  the  stone  corridor. 
The  light  from  a  barred  window  struck  full  into  his 
eyes  and  for  a  moment  he  did  not  see  that  another 
figure,  in  the  same  dingy  stripes,  sat  on  the  edge  of 
the  narrow  bunk,  looking  at  him  out  of  small,  red- 
rimmed  eyes. 

The  occupant  rose  slowly,  thrusting  a  grimy  hand 
through  a  shock  of  sand-coloured  hair,  and  stared 
hard  at  the  newcomer.  Then  he  uttered  a  howl  of 
evil  mirth  and  recognition. 

"  Smoke  of  the  devil !  "  he  shouted.  "  If  it  ain't 
the  youngster  me  and  Towler  had  behind  the  por- 
tiary !  Ho-ho !  I  saw  by  the  papers  they'd  nabbed 
you.  And  to  think  the  geezer  swore  it  was  you  that 
plugged  him !  They  didn't  get  me  —  not  that  time ! 
I'd  be  out  still  if  I  hadn't  tried  to  lift  a  reticule  on  a 


220     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

street-car.  It  was  my  record  that  did  it  for  me  then. 
Well,  we're  pals  now,  old  horse,  and  we'll  celebrate 
it  right!  " 

He  thrust  his  arm  beneath  the  rough  blanket, 
brought  out  a  flask,  and  uncorked  it  with  his  teeth. 

"  It's  the  real  stuff,"  he  said.  "  Towler  slips  it 
to  me  —  good  old  pal !  He's  got  one  of  the  guards 
'  fixed  '  !  Here  —  drink  hearty !  "  With  a  hoarse 
laugh  he  thrust  it  into  Harry's  face. 

Harry's  eyes  had  been  fixed  on  his  with  a  curious 
intensity.  In  that  startling  moment,  as  the  fumes  of 
the  liquor  penetrated  his  nostrils,  a  lurid  sequence 
had  flashed  to  him.  This  man  he  had  once  be- 
trayed by  a  base  surrender  to  appetite;  now  in  antic 
irony,  it  was  this  man's  crime  that  had  betrayed  him, 
Harry  Sevier,  to  the  same  dilemma  and  a  like  shame- 
ful penalty.  And  here  was  dangled  before  him  the 
hideous  badge  and  symbol  of  his  downfall ! 

He  seized  the  wrist  of  the  outstretched  hand  with 
a  grasp  like  steel,  and  the  flask  smashed  against  the 
bars  of  the  window.  Then  he  hurled  the  other  from 
him  across  the  narrow  cell. 

His  cell-mate  clung  to  the  bunk  across  which  he 
had  fallen,  and  stared  at  Harry  with  a  look  of  slow 
malevolence.  He  licked  his  lips. 

"Til  fix  you  for  that!  "he  said. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE    MAN    IN   THE    WHEELED    CHAIR 

ECHO  sat  under  the  Botticelli  blue  of  a  per- 
fect afternoon  on  the  terrace  of  the  Hotel 
Splendid  in  Nice.     Through  the  hot,  bright 
air,  set  in  the  purple  creases  of  the  hazeless  hills,  she 
could  see  tinted  villas  drowsing  in  golden  gardens 
aflame  with  flowers,  and  below  under  the  dizzying 
sunlight    beyond    the    long    esplanade,    tiny    swells 
spilled  over  the  pearly  beech  like  molten  sapphire. 

The  past  months  had  been  packed  with  new  sights 
and  sounds.  There  had  been  the  ocean  passage, 
with  all  the  gaiety  that  mill-pond  weather  and  a  total 
absence  of  mat  de  mer  evokes,  a  leisurely  motor  trip 
through  the  northern  counties  of  England,  shopping 
and  theatre-going  in  Paris,  and  then  a  final  fortnight 
on  the  Riviera.  From  the  first  day  at  sea,  when  the 
dimming  shores  of  home  had  slipped  away  into  the 
vaporous  distance  across  the  swinging,  grey-green 
heave,  Echo  had  thrown  herself  eagerly  into  the  new 
experiences.  It  had  seemed  to  her  at  first  as  though 
she  was  leaving  behind  all  her  pain  and  problem  and 
flying  whither  the  dogging  ghosts  could  not  follow. 
From  time  to  time  she  felt  a  wave  of  that  shame  that 
had  overwhelmed  her  as  she  sat  in  the  court-room. 
When  she  reflected,  she  felt  astonishment  at  her  own 


222      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

temerity  —  at  the  morbid  curiosity  which  had  im- 
pelled her  to  witness  the  rehearsal  of  an  episode 
whose  very  memory  thrilled  her  with  pain  and  dread. 
But  at  length  this,  too,  had  faded.  She  had  told 
herself  that  Harry  would  have  returned  before  her 
and  that  all  would  again  be  well  between  them. 
With  all  her  power  she  had  striven  to  thrust  the  pain 
and  apprehension  from  the  mind  and  amid  new  and 
varying  scenes  she  had  partially  succeeded. 

But  though  the  acute  strain  and  distress,  the  pite- 
ous terror  had  dulled,  her  heart  ached  always  with 
its  burden,  and  there  were  many  times  when  all  of 
Mrs.  Spottiswoode's  effervescent  moods  could  not 
call  forth  response.  Across  the  fairest  scenes  the 
ghosts,  uncalled,  would  thrust  themselves,  and  in  her 
brain  a  mocking  voice  would  whisper  — 

"  You  will  never  tell  him !  You  will  never  dare ! 
There  will  always  be  a  secret  between  you  1  You 
will  be  deceiving  him  —  all  your  life.  For  if  you 
told  him  the  truth  —  the  whole  truth  —  would  he 
believe  you  ?  The  letters  for  which  you  made  that 
visit,  even  if  you  could  show  them,  are  ashes  now. 
And  even  if  he  believed  in  the  necessity  that  drove 
you  to  win  them  from  Craig,  what  might  he  imagine 
had  been  the  price !  You  know  what  the  world 
would  think:  you  heard  it  in  the  court-room.  He 
would  think  the  same  thing!  You  were  in  Craig's 
house,  alone,  that  midnight  —  and  you  will  never 
dare  tell  him !  Can  you  say  to  him,  '  It  was  /  who 
was  in  Cameron  Craig's  library!  /  was  the  mys- 


THE  WHEELED  CHAIR  223 

terious  woman  the  police  were  searching  for  —  / 
whom  you  love  I  '  ?  " 

The  sneering  voices  were  whispering  in  her  ear  to- 
night, as  she  sat  looking  out  across  the  blended  har- 
monies of  sky  and  sea,  her  wistful  face  bent  beneath 
the  soft  halo  of  her  hair. 

There  welled  up  in  her  with  fresh  force  the  aching 
resentment,  the  sick  anger  and  rebellion  against  the 
sardonic  fate  that  had  so  enmeshed  her.  Why 
should  Craig  have  ever  seen  and  desired  her?  Why 
should  his  fancy  not  have  fallen  upon  some  other 
woman?  Yet,  had  that  been  so,  her  father's  name 
would  have  been  ruined!  That,  at  least,  had  not 
befallen.  If  only  she  had  not  written  that  note  to 
Harry!  So  she  reflected,  not  knowing  that  that 
fateful  note  itself  had  been  the  key  to  another  series 
of  incidents  which  had  in  fact  wrought  for  her  salva- 
tion —  so  curiously  interwoven  is  the  mystic  fabric 
that  man  calls  chance.  By  that  note,  she  told  her- 
self, she  had  thrust  his  love  from  her.  Would  any- 
thing less  than  the  whole  truth  bring  it  back?  And 
in  any  case,  if  she  did  not  tell  him  the  whole,  would 
she  ever  be  safe  in  that  love?  For  Craig  could  be- 
tray her  if  he  regained  his  faculties.  A  single  word 
could  overwhelm  her.  There  was  that  lost  night 
when  she  had  been  believed  to  be  at  her  aunt's  —  a 
dropped  stitch  in  time's  weave  which  might  unravel 
the  whole!  If  he  recovered  Craig  would  hold  her 
happiness  in  his  grasp  as  surely  as  he  had  once  held 
her  father's  honour. 


224     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

The  cogent  reasons  that  had  influenced  Harry  in 
his  speculation  on  the  same  subject  had  been  based 
on  his  keen  masculine  observation  and  familiarity 
with  Craig's  type;  Echo  had  only  her  knowledge  of 
his  relentless  passion  and  lack  of  scruple,  and  her 
instinct  was  clouded  by  long  anxiety  and  fear.  She 
had  lately  striven  to  banish  from  her  mind  the  idea 
that  he  might  recover,  but  to-night  it  was  upon  her 
with  strange  force.  A  baleful  thought  thrust  itself 
into  her  mind,  an  incarnate  temptation:  //  Craig 
would  only  die!  As  it  came  to  her  she  felt  her  face 
blush,  and  she  shrank,  feeling  that  a  wicked  thing 
had  found  lodgment  in  her  soul;  but  it  came  again 
and  again. 

A  little  group  of  people  who  had  arrived  that 
morning  had  issued  from  the  dining-room  and  now 
were  seated  about  one  of  the  small  tables  on  the  ter- 
race drinking  their  coffee  —  two  men,  one  elderly, 
one  younger,  a  handsome  woman  and  a  girl.  They 
continued  the  conversation  begun  inside  —  evidently 
a  discussion  of  some  one  who  had  been  on  the  train. 
All  at  once  the  lady  touched  the  speaker  beside  her 
on  the  arm. 

"  Hush!  "  she  cautioned.     "  There  he  is  now!  " 

The  voices  stilled.  Glancing  around  Echo  saw 
that  a  wheeled-chair  was  being  pushed  onto  the  far 
end  of  the  terrace.  A  man  sat  in  it,  huddled  in  a 
steamer-rug. 

"  Is  he  married?"  asked  the  lady,  after  a  pause. 

"  No,"  replied  the  elderly  man.     "  He  has  no 


THE  WHEELED  CHAIR  225 

family  or  near  relatives.  The  men  with  him  are  a 
nurse  and  a  secretary.  They  say  he  is  very  rich." 

"Poor  fellow!"  she  exclaimed.  "What  a 
dreadful  thing !  Death  is  immensely  preferable,  of 
course,  to  life  under  such  conditions.  Where  are 
they  taking  him?  " 

"  To  Hungary,  I  believe.  There's  a  celebrated 
authority  on  brain-surgery  in  Buda-Pesth.  The  sur- 
geons think  it's  pressure  on  some  nerve-centre,  and 
the  case  calls  for  the  particular  operation  that  is 
this  chap's  specialty.  It's  a  forlorn  hope,  I  im- 
agine." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  younger  man,  lighting  a 
cigarette.  "  They  do  marvellous  things  nowadays. 
And  anyway,  if  it  fails,  it  can't  be  any  worse  for  the 
patient.  As  it  is,  he  has  no  mind  at  all  —  no 
speech,  no  memory,  nothing!  " 

Echo  turned  her  head;  there  was  a  fierce  little 
smile  on  her  lips.  So  here  was  another !  Had  he, 
too,  like  the  one  of  whom  she  had  been  thinking, 
been  overtaken  by  a  righteous  Nemesis  in  the  mo- 
ment of  evil  triumph?  And  somewhere,  perhaps, 
was  there  a  woman  to  whom  his  death  would  be  a 
gladness  and  a  relief? 

The  lady  looked  toward  the  wheeled-chair. 
"  How  was  the  injury  caused?  "  she  asked  interest- 
edly. 

"  He  was  shot,"  said  the  elderly  man.  "  Shot 
by  a  burglar.  I  remember  reading  of  it  in  the  news- 
papers at  the  time." 


226     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

Echo  started.  A  little  tremor  ran  over  her. 
The  scarf  she  held  slipped  from  her  hand. 

"  It  seems  a  pity  sometimes,"  went  on  the  voice, 
"  that  the  law  must  graduate  its  penalties  so  nicely. 
Here  is  a  man  who,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  was 
murdered.  If  he  doesn't  recover,  his  is  a  living 
death.  Yet  because  he  continues  to  breathe,  the 
most  that  can  be  given  to  the  scoundrel  who  shot 
him  is  a  term  of  imprisonment.  He  ought  to  have 
been  hanged!  " 

The  girl  beside  her  pushed  back  her  chair  petu- 
lantly. "  Oh,  let's  do  something !  "  she  cried.  "  I 
want  to  get  him  out  of  my  mind.  I  sat  where  I  had 
to  look  at  him  in  the  train  all  day.  It's  too  hor- 
rible !  Fancy  having  to  be  like  that,  not  being  able 
to  walk  or  talk  or  even  to  feed  one's  self !  I  want 
to  go  to  the  Casino  and  see  something  funny  I  " 

When  the  sound  of  their  voices  had  died  away  in 
the  corridor,  Echo  rose  from  her  seat  and  walked 
along  the  terrace,  quite  to  the  end,  where  stood  the 
wheeled-chair.  On  a  bench  near  by  an  attendant 
was  immersed  in  a  newspaper. 

Then  she  turned  and  looked  at  the  pallid,  vacuous 
face  above  the  steamer-rug. 

Yes  —  it  was  Cameron  Craig. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE    LONE    BATTLE 

DURING  those  months  Harry's  visible  life 
had  been  turning  in  an  endless  cycle  of 
new-gained  habit  that  ruled  with  vicious 
and  numbing  precision  the  huge  conglomerate  of 
which  he  was  but  a  single  atom  —  a  bitter,  dragging 
treadmill   in  which  he   was   constrained   to   tramp 
steadily  round  and  round  with  the  hands  of  the 
clock,  marking  time,  as  it  were,  in  a  painful  void 
that  changed  with  mocking  reverberations. 

The  spectre  that  had  smiled  its  cruel  smile  at  him 
from  the  shadow  in  the  little  chamber  back  of  the 
court-room  had  never  left  him.  He  had  thrust  it 
from  him  with  all  his  strength,  but  it  had  come  again 
and  again  to  chuckle  through  the  darkness. 

"  She !  "  it  had  sneered.  "  She  for  whom  you 
risked  and  suffered  so  much!  She  whose  fine  cour- 
age you  counted  on  —  who  you  dreamed  would  rush 
to  your  defence,  at  any  cost  to  herself!  You  need 
not  have  been  afraid.  She  would  have  risked  noth- 
ing. She  cared  for  you  —  yes.  But  she  cares  a 
thousand  times  more  for  her  place  in  the  world's 
opinion.  Why,  she  would  have  married  Craig  — 
married  him !  —  rather  than  face  a  reflected  shame 
from  a  story  affecting  her  father.  So  much  reputa- 
227 


228      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

tion  means  to  her !  Here  you  are  in  your  stripes,  a 
convict,  and  she  knows  it!  She  knew  all  along! 
She  doesn't  guess  you  saw  her  in  the  court-room: 
she  didn't  mean  you  to,  of  course.  How  she  must 
have  suffered  from  fear  that  you  would  drag  her 
into  it!  No  doubt  she  is  afraid  you  may  repent  and 
call  on  her  now  to  help  you.  Perhaps  that  is  why 
she  has  gone  abroad.  That  is  the  real  Echo  Allen ! 
That  is  the  woman  you  have  loved!  " 

Should  he  call  to  her  now,  when  she  had  left  him 
to  this  suffering,  giving  him  no  little  word  of  trust  or 
gratitude?  A  painful  fiery  pride  rose  up  in  him. 
Not  if  his  flesh  was  torn  by  red-hot  pincers !  Not 
in  endless  years,  though  every  day  were  a  separate 
hell,  till  he  died!  Never  —  never  —  never! 

Seared  by  pride,  tortured  by  despair,  with  the 
black  agony  of  doubt  clinging  to  him  like  a  coat-of- 
mail,  memory  dragged  him  backward  through  infer- 
nos of  suffering,  thrusting  its  searching  fingers  into 
each  cranny  of  his  mind,  mocking  him  with  shifting 
pictures  cruelly  incongruous,  that  like  a  camera  obs- 
cura  turned  and  turned  about  a  single  focus  —  a 
grey  old  porch  with  Echo's  figure  leaning  against  a 
pillar  and  he  looking  up  into  her  face.  As  though 
he  had  been  a  separate  entity  he  saw  himself  moving 
through  a  thousand  significant  scenes  of  the  flame- 
swept  past  —  the  long-gone,  dead  and  buried  yet  liv- 
ing past  —  with  her !  And  across  these  flitting  out- 
lines there  stamped  itself  the  forbidding  legend  that 
his  ghostly  guide  showed  Dante.  .  .  .  Lasciate  Og- 


THE  LONE  BATTLE  229 

ni  speranzaf  By  his  own  choice  he  had  opened  a 
bottomless  chasm  between  the  then  and  now,  be- 
tween the  Harry  Sevier  he  had  been  and  the  name- 
less convict  branded  by  the  righteous  law,  and  this 
chasm  was  impassible  and  enduring.  Ten  years  of 
oblivion,  of  loathsome  existence  under  a  number,  of 
comradeship  with  felons,  an  interminable  blank  un- 
lighted  by  one  glimpse  of  joy!  Years  in  which,  at 
home,  the  mystery  of  his  disappearance  would  pass 
from  a  nine-days'-wonder  to  a  diminishing  specula- 
tion, a  vague  curiosity,  and  at  length  to  forgetful- 
ness.  His  life,  with  its  multiple  ambitions,  its  hopes 
and  strivings  —  its  love  —  had  been  spilled  like 
water  into  sand ;  there  remained  only  the  useless  ves- 
sel, empty  and  dishonoured. 

Time  and  again  he  experienced  abrupt  lapses  into 
the  blackest  pit  of  despair,  when  he  grappled  with 
an  aching  desire  to  be  quit  of  the  puzzle  of  life, 
and  by  any  one  of  a  dozen  means  which  lay  at  his 
hand,  to  leap  into  freedom.  But  there  was  in  him 
something  deep-lying  and  adamantine  which  forbade 
this  solution. 

Meanwhile  time,  after  a  fashion,  went  on.  He 
breathed,  ate  and  slept;  he  saw  the  dawn  look  in 
at  his  narrow  window  and  the  silken  blue  dusk  drawn 
across  its  bars;  his  hands  automatically  performed 
mechanical  tasks,  as  did  the  hundreds  of  others 
about  him;  and  gradually,  out  of  the  very  iteration 
of  these  homely  things  grew  a  passive  equanimity, 
destitute  of  human  comfort  yet  bringing  with  it  a 


230     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

kind  of  numb  acquiescence  in  which,  though  all  un- 
consciously, his  feet  were  feeling  for  new  foot-hold 
on  the  submerged  highway  of  life.  And  at  length 
normal  feeling,  though  dazed  and  bewildered,  crept 
again  to  the  surface;  he  was  once  more  conscious 
of  the  sun  and  air,  of  the  scent  of  green  growing 
things  that  the  breeze  now  and  then  wafted  over  the 
masonry,  of  the  grey  pigeons  that  pecked  crumbs 
in  the  court-yard,  and  of  the  multitudinous  human 
life  that  throbbed  about  him. 

In  all  these  months  Paddy  the  Brick  had  been 
his  cell-mate.  By  day  in  the  shop,  that  rumbled  with 
the  clacking  din  of  the  tireless  shoe-machines,  they 
were  separated.  But  they  marched  shoulder  to 
breast  in  the  loathed  lock-step,  they  sat  side  by  side 
at  dinner  and  supper,  and  the  iron  bunks  on  which 
they  slept  —  Harry  on  the  upper  one  —  were  but 
a  few  feet  apart.  During  the  first  days,  while  they 
were  together  in  the  cell,  the  other  had  watched 
him  glumly  and  suspiciously,  speaking  only  when  he 
must  and  then  morosely,  so  that  Harry  had  won- 
dered dully  whether  that  whirl  of  rage  in  which  he 
had  smashed  the  flask  of  whisky  against  the  win- 
dow-bars had  not  further  embittered  his  lot  by  an 
irreparable  enmity. 

More  than  once,  by  the  devious  means  known  to 
such  places,  Paddy  the  Brick  had  procured  whisky, 
and  this  —  though  he  risked  offering  no  more  to  his 
companion  but  drank  it  secretly  in  his  bunk  at  night 
—  had  put  Harry  through  other  bitter  tests  of  self- 


THE  LONE  BATTLE  231 

control.  For  the  wilful  license  of  the  day  on  which 
he  had  ceased  to  be  Harry  Sevier  had  granted  fresh 
and  terrible  power  to  the  cringing  thing  that  had 
been  mastered  and  manacled,  and  the  fight  he  had 
fought  out  in  that  long  year  Harry  had  had  again 
to  renew,  and  now  without  the  zest  of  reward. 
Again  and  again,  as  he  sat  in  his  cell,  or  fed  the 
pungent  leathern  strips  into  the  clacking  shoe-ma- 
chines in  the  shop,  without  warning  the  demon  of 
thirst  had  swooped  upon  him,  making  his  dry  throat 
ache  with  uncontrollable  longing,  his  palms  tingle 
with  itching  desire:  and  at  times,  when  he  awoke 
gasping  with  the  reeking  fumes  in  his  nostrils,  and 
heard  the  gurgle  of  the  liquor  in  the  dark,  he  had 
fought  with  a  strenuous  desire  to  fling  himself  bodily 
upon  his  companion  and  snatch  the  drink  to  his  own 
arid  lips  —  fought  till  the  struggle  turned  him  faint 
with  anger,  disgust  and  self-contempt. 

What  lent  him  in  these  bitter  months  the  strength 
for  this  unequal  struggle?  Most  of  all  the  knowl- 
edge that  the  appetite  which  he  now  grappled  with 
in  himself,  was  the  patron  Genius  of  that  house 
of  Pain.  He  had  learned  it  from  his  fellows  there, 
in  whose  faces  alcohol  had  set  its  recognisable 
marks,  its  baleful  brands  of  ownership.  He  knew 
it  from  a  score  of  dismal  histories  related  by  his 
incorrigible  cell-mate,  daily  allusions,  the  famished 
eagerness  with  which  the  surreptitious  flask  was 
passed  from  hand  to  hand.  The  Spirit  of  Drink 
had  seemed  to  him  at  length  to  sprawl,  a  huge, 


23 2      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

lethargic  incubus,  over  that  tortured  congeries  of 
crime.  Till  slowly,  very  slowly  —  as  human  feel- 
ing had  earlier  come  to  him  out  of  his  blankness  and 
torpor  —  there  had  dawned  in  him  a  mute  conscious- 
ness of  a  victory  over  himself  that  was  to  be  en- 
during. The  conquest  he  had  thought  he  had  made 
in  that  first  year  of  studied  avoidance  had  been 
no  true  one.  Under  stress  of  anger,  grief  and  re- 
sentment, it  had  fallen  in  shameful  and  utter  defeat. 
The  real  victory  that  he  knew  now,  had  come  to  him 
in  that  prison  garb,  when  black  despair  had  sat  by 
his  side  through  long  months  —  the  fruit  of  a 
strength  born  of  familiar  hand-touch  with  evil  temp- 
tation and  a  hatred  of  the  tempter. 

As  time  went  on,  the  surly  mood  of  his  cell-mate 
had  grown  less  difficult,  had  even  softened  to  a 
sneering  tolerance. 

"You're  improving!"  he  said  one  day  with  a 
smirk.  "  So  you're  making  up  to  the  Gospel-Sharp, 
eh?" 

It  was  a  Sunday,  when  the  shops  were  empty  and 
silent,  and  the  long  grey-black  serpentine,  with  its 
hitching  lock-step,  had  wound  to  the  Chapel  for  the 
weekly  platitudes  and  then  back  to  the  clammy,  win- 
try dormitory,  to  drop  its  human  links  at  their  num- 
bered cells.  That  day  for  the  first  time,  the  plod- 
ding, oleaginous  chaplain  had  noted  the  new  figure 
in  the  stolid  ranks  and  had  stopped  to  speak  to  him 
—  a  commonplace  to  which  Harry  had  responded 
with  a  mere  word. 


THE  LONE  BATTLE  233 

"  You'd  better  make  up  to  the  Warden!  "  Paddy 
the  Brick  continued.  "  He's  the  cock-of-the-walk 
here.  I'd  like  to  smash  that  oily  face  of  his !  " 

"  I've  nothing  against  him,"  replied  Harry  evenly. 
"  He  does  what  he's  here  to  do." 

"  He'd  better  keep  his  nose  in  his  office,"  said 
the  other  darkly.  "  He'll  walk  through  the  shops 
once  too  often!  I  know  a  man  around  the  corner 
who'd  give  his  neck  to  *  get '  him  —  he's  a  lifer, 
and  nothing  makes  much  difference  to  him !  " 

He  crossed  the  narrow  cell  as  he  spoke,  and  sit- 
ting on  one  of  the  three-legged  stools  that  constituted 
the  cell's  only  movable  furniture,  took  a  bent  tin 
spoon  from  under  his  jacket  and  began  to  tap  upon 
the  wall.  Harry  had  sometimes  seen  him  at  this 
occupation  —  a  kind  of  crude  signalling  he  had 
thought  it.  Now,  however,  some  rhythm  in  the 
sound  caught  him,  reminding  him  of  the  click  of 
the  keys  in  a  telegraph  office.  "  What  is  that  you 
are  doing?  "  he  asked,  as  the  other  stopped. 

"  Doing?"  Paddy  the  Brick  turned  his  narrow 
eyes  over  his  shoulder.  "  I've  been  having  a  chat 
with  an  old  pal  of  mine  in  the  upper  tier.  That's 
what." 

"Talking?" 

"  Yes.  It's  the  prison-wireless.  Didn't  you  ever 
hear  of  that?  " 

"  No." 

The  other  rose  and  pulled  away  the  blanket  from 
the  foot  of  his  bunk.  There  in  the  whitewashed 


234     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

wall  was  a  double  row  of  minute  scratches.  "  That's 
the  alphabet,"  he  said.  "  It's  mighty  handy  —  we 
work  it  by  relay.  I  can  call  up  any  cell  on  this 
side  in  fifteen  minutes.  Better  learn  it,"  he  added 
jeeringly.  "  You'll  have  plenty  of  time !  " 

Harry's  gaze  turned  back  to  the  little  barred- 
window  with  its  meagre  square  of  blue.  The  time 
he  had  been  there  was  to  be  measured  only  by 
months,  yet  how  century-long  had  dragged  the 
leaden-footed  procession!  His  painful  reverie  was 
broken  by  Paddy  the  Brick's  voice,  jarring  and  ma- 
licious : 

"Ever  read  the  Bible?" 

The  other  had  taken  the  small  dingy  volume  — 
the  sole  book  the  place  afforded  —  from  its  shelf, 
and  was  lying  on  his  back  on  his  bunk,  his  eyes  peer- 
ing over  its  rim. 

"Yes,"  answered  Harry,  slowly.     "Why?" 

"I've  found  one  good  thing  in  it:  '  Woe  unto 
you  also,  ye  lawyers!  for  ye  lade  men  with  burdens 
grievous  to  be  borne'  Ho-ho ! "  he  chuckled. 
"  Reckon  I'll  ask  old  Coffin-Face  to  preach  on  it  next 
Sunday  in  Chapel.  I'd  sure  enjoy  it.  I  had  a  law- 
yer once  —  damn  him !  " 

The  flare  of  evil  passion  in  the  closing  epithet 
seemed  to  Harry  like  a  wicked  spurt  of  flame  from 
some  sudden  crack  in  cooling  lava,  leaping  out  to 
sear  him.  His  face  was  turned  away  —  toward  the 
little  square  of  barred  window  —  and  his  voice  was 
hoarser  than  usual,  as  he  asked: 


THE  LONE  BATTLE  235 

"  Why  do  you  hate  him  so?  " 

Paddy  the  Brick  hurled  the  Bible  into  the  corner 
with  an  imprecation.  He  rose  to  a  sitting  posture, 
his  features  working. 

"Because  he  did  it  for  me!"  he  said.  "He 
might  have  cleared  me  ...  and  he  didn't  try. 
And  I  never  took  the  money  they  said  I  stole  — 
never,  so  help  me!  It  was  a  put-up  job.  They 
*  planted '  the  stuff  on  me,  when  I  was  drunk.  It 
was  a  pay-day  and  I  knew  they  were  up  to  some- 
thing, for  they'd  sworn  they'd  drive  me  out  of  the 
logging-camp  —  and  yet  I  hadn't  sense  enough  to 
keep  sober !  "  He  gave  a  harsh  and  bitter  laugh, 
and  his  voice  rose.  "  But  it  was  my  lawyer  friend 
that  really  did  the  business !  He  was  a  dead  swell 
—  one  of  your  la-de-das  with  money  and  automo- 
biles —  that  played  at  lawyering.  They  told  me 
he  was  a  great  man  and  I  was  fool  enough  to  be- 
lieve them.  What  did  he  care  for  my  case  —  it  was 
a  little  one  to  him!  I  was  nothing  but  a  lumber- 
jack !  Why  should  he  soil  his  kid  gloves  with  me  ?  " 

He  turned  to  Harry's  white  face  a  livid  coun- 
tenance. "  So  now  I'm  here,"  he  finished,  "  and  I 
don't  give  a  rip  if  I  am,  either !  " 

"  Woe  unto  you  also,  ye  lawyers!  "  Parallel  with 
the  wholesale  indictment  another  text  in  that  self- 
same book  was  flashing  through  Harry's  mind: 
"For  with  what  judgment  ye  judge  ye  shall  be 
judged,  and  with  what  measure  ye  mete  it  shall  be 
measured  to  you  again."  Was  that,  after  all,  no 


236      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

trite  generality  applicable  to  a  hypothetical  hereafter, 
but  a  thing  true  in  the  minute  and  multinomial  af- 
fairs of  the  present?  Did  chance,  or  fate  —  or 
whatever  the  human  mind  called  the  great  Deus  ex 
Machind  —  watch  somewhere,  with  hand  upon  the 
lever,  adjusting  the  nice  balance  to  the  subtle  require- 
ments of  some  occult  law  of  retribution  that,  though 
hidden,  was  yet  as  certain  as  gravitation? 

As  Harry  saw  the  reddened  eyes  glowing  with 
hatred,  the  curving  fingers,  the  crouching  figure,  he 
said  to  himself,  "This  is  my  work  —  mine  and 
whisky's.  He  was  a  simple  woodman  who  la- 
boured six  days  of  the  week  and  on  the  seventh 
traded  half  his  wages  for  '  moonshine '  from  some 
illicit  mountain  still.  Whisky  set  his  feet  in  the 
toils,  yet  but  for  me  he  might  have  lived  there  for- 
ever in  the  timber,  treading  his  narrow  groove  like 
a  blind  horse  on  a  ferry,  not  one  whit  worse  than 
his  fellows,  with  no  agonised  conscience,  a  simple 
product  of  his  environment.  But  I  —  and  whisky 
—  fastened  the  bonds  upon  him.  I  did  it.  I  sent 
him  here.  I  gave  him  hatred  of  society,  the  war- 
fare that  has  already  marked  him  with  the  mark  of 
the  beast.  This  is  what  I  did.  And  now  I  am 
plucked  up  from  my  place  and  planted  here  beside 
him,  as  soiled  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  as  he!  Is 
it  because  I  was  the  instrument  of  his  demoralisation 
that  the  tables  have  now  been  turned?  —  because  he 
who  takes  the  sword  shall  perish  by  the  sword? 
And  in  the  last  great  evening-up,  is  it  written  that  I 


THE  LONE  BATTLE  237 

shall  become  even  as  he?  —  that  bars  and  chains 
shall  have  their  will  of  me  and  I  emerge  at  last, 
like  this  incorrigible  mine,  hard,  debased,  besotted, 
beyond  hope  or  redemption  in  the  world?"  He 
shuddered.  Better  even  that  that  shot  in  the  library 
had  gone  home  —  that  he  now  lay,  innocent  as  he 
was,  with  the  red  mark  on  his  throat,  down  in  the 
horrible  quick-lime ! 

He  rose,  and  with  his  hands  gripping  the  bars 
of  the  open  door,  drew  a  long  breath.  No  1  what- 
ever this  pent-house  did  to  him,  it  should  never  drag 
him  down!  He  would  take  his  medicine.  For 
what,  in  his  egregious  folly  and  egotism,  he  had 
done,  he  would  pay  —  if  fate  demanded,  to  the  utter- 
most farthing.  But  out  of  its  prison  his  soul,  some- 
time, should  come  unblanched,  and  unabashed! 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE   GIPSY  RING 

THE  chill  touch  of  autumn  was  in  the  air  when 
the  big  steamer  that  brought  Mrs.  Spottis- 
woode  and  Echo  home,  crept  up  the  bay  to 
her  wharf  in  the  teeming  North  River.  They  ar- 
rived at  daylight  and  the  early  morning  found  them 
safe  aboard  a  Pullman  rolling  southward. 

Looking  out  across  the  filmy  glory  of  the  October 
fields  and  the  woods  in  their  golden  regalia  epau- 
letted  in  red,  Echo  thought  of  the  day  she  had  sailed 
away.  She  had  been  wretched  then,  and  with  all 
the  tonic  of  fresh  scenes  and  the  savour  of  change, 
was  she  not  as  wretched  now?  For  no  letter  from 
home  had  chronicled  Harry  Sevier's  return,  and 
moreover  the  knowledge  that  Craig  had  been  taken 
half  around  the  world  to  test  the  greatest  surgical 
skill  the  planet  afforded,  had  made  his  recovery,  with 
all  it  might  imply  for  her,  an  imminent  possibility. 

As  she  followed  Mrs.  Spottiswoode  into  the 
dining-car  for  luncheon,  a  lank,  familiar  form  sprang 
up  from  a  table. 

"  Mr.  Malcolm  1  "  she  cried,  and  found  both  her 
hands  instantly  swallowed  in  a  pair  of  big  palms. 

He  was  an  extraordinary  man,  this  Thomas  Mai- 
238 


THE  GIPSY  RING  239 

colm,  whom  his  intimates  dubbed,  affectionately, 
"  Tom."  His  father  had  begun  life  brilliantly,  had 
begun  to  make  a  name  and  place  for  himself  in  pro- 
fessional life,  when  he  had  yielded  to  the  vice  of 
drinking,  had  speedily  sunk  himself  in  poverty,  and 
had  died  in  some  slum  corner  wretched  and  unre- 
deemed, leaving  behind  him  a  widow  and  a  boy  of 
ten  who,  with  grim  determination,  had  set  himself  to 
earn  a  living  for  both.  He  had  but  just  begun  to 
succeed  in  this  when  disease,  its  seeds  sown  in  priva- 
tion, took  his  mother  from  him.  By  dint  of  night- 
work  he  had  gained  a  common-school  education  and 
had  tutored  himself  through  a  southern  university. 
At  twenty-five  he  had  founded  an  obscure  Mission 
in  the  city  which  had  known  his  father's  disgrace, 
where  for  thirty  years  he  had  devoted  himself  to 
work  among  the  rum-sodden  and  depraved.  There 
was  none  so  besotted  as  to  be  turned  from  his  door; 
he  was  a  familiar  figure  in  the  night-court  and  a 
welcome  weekly  visitor  at  the  Penitentiary,  few  of 
whose  inmates  he  did  not  know  personally.  At  fifty- 
five  no  man  was  more  beloved  in  the  community  in 
which  he  laboured,  and  most  of  all  was  he  valued 
and  respected  by  those  who  knew  his  history,  and 
understood  how  the  hatred  of  liquor  had  become  to 
the  boy  a  consuming  fire  that  had  driven  him  to  this 
life  of  undeviating  self-denial  and  strenuous  conflict 
with  the  most  sordid  of  vices. 

Looking  down  at  Echo  from  his  great  height, 
gaunt,  raw-boned  and  with  a  saturnine  twinkle  in  his 


240      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

cavernous  eyes,  his  homely  sallow  face  softened  to 
a  wonderful  smile.  "  Why !  "  he  said.  "  It's  a 
monstrous  time  since  we've  met,  my  dear !  "  and  to 
Mrs.  Spottiswoode  —  "I  saw  your  names  on  the  pas- 
senger-list in  the  paper  this  morning,  but  I  thought 
New  York  would  have  kept  you  at  least  a  week." 

"  Not  me !  "  she  returned.  "  We  took  in  all  the 
new  plays  in  London  and  spent  all  our  money  in 
Paris.  I've  no  ambition  now  above  my  winter 
roses !  "  She  extended  her  hand  to  Malcolm's  com- 
panion. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Mason?  I'm  beginning 
to  think  you  two  men  are  desperate  conspirators. 
Last  year  in  New  York  I  saw  you  both  together." 

Malcolm  laughed.  "  A  misguided  philanthropist 
once  left  a  part  of  his  estate  to  my  Mission,  and 
Mason,  here,  is  the  legal  executor.  Ferbum  sat" 

"  I  hope  that  is  Latin  for  *  Do  sit  at  our  table.' 
The  car  is  so  full,  and  I  never  could  ride  backward ! 
Thank  you,  so  much  I  "  She  sat  down  and  bent  her 
smart  lorgnette  upon  the  menu-card.  "  What  shall 
we  order,  Echo?  " 

"  Anything  but  the  *  fried  Chicken,  Virginia 
style,'  "  said  Mason  gloomily.  "  It's  supposed  to 
be  what  that  waiter  has  on  his  tray  there.  It's  a 
crime  and  a  swindle." 

"  Don't  mind  Mason,"  interposed  Malcolm. 
"  He's  a  dyspeptic.  When  I  get  to  be  his  age  — " 

"  You  did,"  said  the  other  viciously,  "  five  years 
ago." 


THE  GIPSY  RING  241 

"  —  I'll  be  a  vegetarian,"  finished  the  other. 
"  Cheer  up,  Mason,  and  have  a  potato."  He 
turned  to  Echo :  "  I  know  a  girl  in  my  town  who's 
mighty  keen  to  see  you." 

"  Nancy  Langham !  " 

He  nodded.  "  She  counts  on  having  you  down 
for  Thanksgiving  week.  I  hope  she'll  succeed. 
I'm  giving  a  great  *  spread '  down  at  the  Mission, 
and  I  want  you  girls  to  show  me  how  to  decorate 
the  place.  You  will,  then,  eh?  I  haven't  forgotten 
how  you  and  Nancy  helped  me  out  last  Christmas !  " 
He  reached  over  and  patted  her  hand.  "  I  do  like 
to  let  it  soak  into  Poverty  Terrace  that  I  really  keep 
company  with  '  dee  quality,'  as  the  darkies  say!  " 

Mrs.  Spottiswoode  looked  at  him  curiously. 
"  How  frivolous  and  selfish  we  must  all  seem  to 
you,  who  give  up  your  life  to  such  people !  "  she 
said.  "  I've  heard  so  much  about  your  work,  Mr. 
Malcolm,  especially  in  the  prisons.  I  think  you  are 
wonderful.  I  should  know  how  to  talk  to  a  Mar- 
tian better  than  to  a  criminal.  Don't  you  find  it 
hard  to  get  into  sympathy  with  them?  " 

His  smiling  face  turned  serious.  "  '  A  fellow- 
feeling  makes  us  wondrous  kind,' "  he  quoted. 
"You  remember  your  Bunyan?  I  always  say  to 
myself,  *  There,  but  for  the  lack  of  a  sufficient  temp- 
tation, goes  Thomas  Malcolm ! '  Dear  Lady,  there 
is  many  a  man  in  the  Penitentiary  who  would  be  a 
churchwarden  to-day  but  for  bad  environment  and 
good  whisky." 


242     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

"  And  the  law's  mistakes,"  added  Mason,  sar- 
donically. He  had  been  turning  over  on  his  finger 
a  ring  with  a  square  green  stone,  and  Echo  had  been 
wondering  vaguely  where  she  had  seen  such  a  ring 
before.  "  I  know  a  man  who's  in  for  ten  years, 
and  I'd  stake  my  life  he's  no  more  guilty  than  I  am." 

"How  extraordinary!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Spottis- 
woode,  and  Malcolm  observed  with  wicked  inno- 
cence :  "I  wonder  who  could  have  defended  him !  " 

The  other  smiled  grimly  at  the  thrust.  "  Oh,  he 
was  guilty  enough  according  to  the  evidence.  But 
he  was  innocent,  for  all  of  that.  He  is  the  man  who 
was  accused  of  shooting  Cameron  Craig." 

The  blood  flew  to  Echo's  face  and  she  bent  her 
head  over  her  salad.  She  felt  as  though  she  had 
strayed  unwittingly  into  an  ambush  where  all  the  old 
dread  and  terror  from  which  she  had  fled  had  sprung 
again  upon  her. 

"  But,"  said  Mrs.  Spottiswoode,  "  I  thought  Craig 
himself  identified  him." 

Mason  sniffed.  "  Craig  was  in  no  condition  to 
identify  anybody.  I  saw  the  man  and  talked  with 
him,  day  after  day,  for  weeks.  He  was  no  criminal 
—  why,  his  very  look  gave  the  theory  the  lie!  " 

A  keen,  thriving  wonder  crossed  Echo's  thought 
at  the  blunt  assertion.  That  livid  face  back  of  the 
spitting  revolver  hung  before  her  mental  sight  with 
strange  vividness  —  the  surly,  wicked  lips,  the  low 
brow  and  narrow  eyes.  How  was  it  possible  that 
such  a  countenance  could  assume  at  wont  a  look  of 


THE  GIPSY  RING  243 

innocency  that  would  deceive  a  lawyer,  even  against 
damning  evidence,  into  a  belief  that  he  was  a  victim 
of  circumstances? 

"What  is  your  theory  of  the  shooting,  then?" 
asked  Mrs.  Spottiswoode,  interestedly. 

The  lawyer  was  silent  a  moment,  drawing  little 
circles  on  the  cloth  with  his  fork.  "  I  haven't  a 
wholly  satisfactory  one,"  he  said  at  length,  slowly. 
"  But  I  don't  believe  he  did  it.  Craig,  it  is  certain, 
had  a  rendezvous  with  a  woman,  and  the  woman 
saw  the  shooting.  I  believe  her  testimony  would 
have  proven  that  the  man  who  was  tried  and  con- 
victed was  not  the  man  who  did  it.  That  fact  dis- 
posed of,  I  believe  he  could  have  shown,  if  he  had 
chosen  to,  that  he  had  no  connection  with  the  burg- 
lars, and  would  have  been  acquitted." 

"  Cherchez  la  femme!  "  murmured  the  lady. 

"  Yes.     She  would  not  come  forward." 

Mrs.  Spottiswoode  looked  at  Malcolm.  "  Have 
you  seen  him?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,  I've  been  in  New  Orleans  for  three  months. 
But  I  hope  to  begin  my  visits  at  the  Penitentiary 
very  soon,  and  I'm  looking  forward  to  meeting  him." 

"  You'll  agree  with  me,  I'll  bet  a  hat !  "  said 
Mason.  "  By  the  way  "  —  he  held  up  his  hand 
— "  he  gave  me  this  ring,  the  day  he  was  sentenced." 

Echo  felt  every  nerve  suddenly  tighten.  For  it 
had  come  to  her  in  a  flash  where  she  had  seen  that 
ring's  counterpart:  it  had  been  on  the  finger  of  the 
masked  burglar  on  that  horrible  midnight  in  Craig's 


244     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

library  —  when  he  had  held  out  to  her  the  letters 
from  the  safe!  Her  heart  began  to  beat  suffocat- 
ingly. "  Take  them  and  go  —  go  instantly!" — 
she  seemed  to  hear  the  tense  command  strike  across 
the  car.  A  thrill  ran  over  her.  Was  the  ring  a 
kind  of  badge,  a  sign  of  their  guilty  calling?  Or 
could  it  be  that  the  man  who  was  being  tried  was 
not  the  man  who  had  shot  Craig  —  but  the  other, 
the  one  who  had  saved  her? 

She  began  to  tremble,  for  another  thought  stabbed 
her.  If  this  was  so,  how  could  she  honourably  keep 
silence?  The  instant  question  touched  her  con- 
science, her  quick  sense  of  justice  and  duty,  with 
sudden  insistence.  But  for  the  spoilers  themselves, 
she  was  the  only  witness  of  that  deed  in  the  library. 
Craig  —  so  narrow  had  been  for  him  that  instant  of 
observation  —  might  have  been  mistaken.  But  not 
she!  The  very  fright  and  horror  of  the  moment 
had  indelibly  fixed  the  shooter's  face  upon  her  mind. 
Suppose  Mason's  hypothesis  were  correct  —  suppose 
he  had  been  no  burglar,  but  an  honourable  man, 
caught,  as  she  had  been,  in  a  web  of  circumstance. 
In  the  crisis  he  had  acted  as  a  gentleman,  had  thought 
of  her  before  himself.  Instead  of  flying  with  the 
others,  he  had  lingered  to  do  that  generous  deed  for 
her.  What  if  it  were  because  of  that  he  had  been 
taken !  If  so,  what  a  debt  she  owed  him ! 

It  came  to  her  suddenly  that  she  must  be  certain. 
Never  again  could  she  know  peace  of  soul  till  she 
knew  the  truth.  If  the  man  in  the  Penitentiary  was 


THE  GIPSY  RING  245 

indeed  the  man  who  had  shot  Craig,  well  and  good. 
If  not  ... 

She  turned  her  head,  for  Malcolm  was  speaking 
to  her.  "  When  you  come  to  Nancy's  you  must  let 
me  take  you  both  out  to  see  these  •proteges  of  mine 
that  have  to  be  shut  up  for  the  good  of  their  souls. 
Wouldn't  you  like  to,  eh?  " 

She  thought  he  must  hear  the  beating  of  her  pulse. 
"  Would  —  don't  they  resent  being  stared  at?  "  she 
faltered. 

"  Bless  your  heart!  "  he  said,  with  one  of  his  bear- 
like  laughs.  "  It's  good  for  them.  They  don't  get 
a  squint  at  roses  and  sunshine  every  day!  A  sight 
like  you  two  girls  will  make  them  want  to  get  out, 
and  keep  them  on  their  best  behaviour,  so  as  to  earn 
all  the  commutation  good  marks  bring !  I'll  get  the 
Warden  to  take  us  through  the  shops.  That's  the 
most  interesting  part." 

"  I  must  be  quite  certain!  "  The  words  seemed 
singing  themselves  over  in  a  banal  refrain  that 
sounded  through  the  stir  and  rumble  of  the  station, 
mingling  with  'Lige's  hearty  voice  of  welcome,  and 
her  father's  loving  greeting  as  he  lifted  her  carefully 
from  the  car  step. 

"You're  a  lot  better?  Sure?"  he  queried  anx- 
iously, as  he  held  both  her  hands  tight  in  his. 

"  Sure !  "  she  smiled.  "  We've  had  a  wonderful 
time.  I  couldn't  begin  to  tell  you  about  it  in  my 
letters.  But  I'm  glad  to  be  home  just  the  same! 


246      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

How  are  mother  and  Chilly?  Mr.  Malcolm  was 
on  the  train  —  there  he  is  now,  waving  his  hand 
from  the  window.  Did  the  wireless  tell  you  we  lost 
a  propeller-blade  two  days  out?  " 

The  dusk  flowed  over  them  in  violet  waves  as 
they  drove  homeward  and  she  laughed  and  talked 
gaily,  with  her  hand  clasped  in  his  under  the  carriage- 
robe,  the  horses  prancing  and  curvetting  in  the  keen 
October  air.  Once,  at  a  crossing,  she  put  out  her 
hand  and  touched  the  coachman's  arm. 

"  Take  Main  Street,  'Lige,"  she  directed.  "  I'd 
like  to  see  how  it  looks." 

As  he  swung  into  the  broader  thoroughfare,  her 
father  said,  "  You're  looking  at  the  new  bank  build- 
ing. You  see  it's  nearly  done." 

But  she  was  really  looking  beyond,  at  a  four- 
storied  office-front,  on  whose  second  floor  the  win- 
dows of  a  suite  showed  in  chaste,  golden  letters  the 
legend,  "  Henry  Sevier,  Attorn ey-at-Law."  The 
windows  were  blank  and  dusty,  and  their  blinds  were 
drawn. 

"  Why,  you're  shivering !  "  said  her  father  sud- 
denly, and  drew  the  robe  more  closely  about  her. 

She  smiled  at  him. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  but  I  think  I'm  just  a  little 
tired.  Drive  faster,  'Lige.  I  —  I  want  to  get 
home." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

AMBUSH 

LYING  in  his  bunk  Harry  awoke  to  the  con- 
sciousness of  another  bleak  dawn.  The 
morning  waking  was  always  a  pain  to  him, 
for  in  sleep  the  barriers  fell  away  and  the  mind  fared 
forth  along  the  free,  sweet  highways  of  memory. 
He  did  not  open  his  eyes  at  once,  but  he  felt  the 
rasp  of  the  coarse  blanket  at  his  throat,  smelled  the 
cold  clamminess  of  the  granite  floor,  and  realised  by 
a  thousand  reminders  of  the  sharpened  senses  that 
another  round  of  the  treadmill  awaited  him.  He 
remembered  drearily  that  to-morrow  would  be 
Thanksgiving  Day.  In  the  world  outside  it  was  the 
time  of  yellow  maples  and  the  red  of  the  frost-kissed 
sumac,  of  wild  grapes  purpling  in  the  thickets  and 
clumps  of  alder  blooms  in  the  fence-corners  —  of 
blazing  hearths  and  good  fellowship! 

Mingling  with  the  stir  of  reawakening  life  in  the 
corridors  there  sounded  a  light  tap-tap  —  the  tattoo 
of  a  tin  spoon  against  the  stone. 

Without  moving  he  opened  his  eyes.     Paddy  the 

Brick  was  up  and  dressed  —  if  donning  the  cheap 

flannel  shirt,  the  striped  jacket  and  trousers,  might 

be  called  dressing  —  and,  stooped  in  the  corner  of 

247 


248      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

the  cell,  was  industriously  at  work  with  the  '  prison- 
wireless.'  For  a  while  Harry  watched  him  curi- 
ously; then  suddenly  his  ear  made  out  a  word.  For 
in  time  he  had  taken  his  cell-mate's  sneering  advice, 
and  because  the  busy  mind,  turned  too  long  upon 
itself,  must  perforce  occupy  itself  with  something 
extraneous,  had  mastered  the  code  that  was  scratched 
in  the  white-washed  wall.  He  had  a  retentive  mem- 
ory, sharpened  now  by  disuse,  and  the  tiny  tap-tap 
that  he  had  learned  to  distinguish  through  the  muf- 
fling masonry,  though  he  never  used  it  as  a  means 
of  communication,  had  soon  become  an  open  book 
to  him.  Strange  things  he  had  heard  in  this  manner 
—  furtive,  uncouth  gossip  of  that  under-world, 
which,  although  much  was  couched  in  an  unknown 
argot  and  was  meaningless  to  him,  had  yet  served 
in  a  way  to  lighten  the  unendurable  emptiness.  The 
word  he  had  caught  now  was  "  visitors." 

In  another  moment  Harry  was  listening  intently, 
for  the  sounds  were  spelling  something  which  instinct 
told  him  was  wickedly  suggestive  though  he  could 
not  guess  its  purport.  "  Warden  .  .  .  to-day," 
tapped  the  signalled  code,  " — take  .  .  .  number 
nine  .  .  .  machine  .  .  .  your  .  .  .  chance  — " 

Whatever  else  might  have  been  said  was  blotted 
by  the  whirring  clang  of  the  electric  gong  in  the 
central  corridor.  Through  the  great  lamelliform 
bee-hive  it  sent  its  waking  clamour,  the  signal  for 
rising  to  the  new  day's  tasks.  With  the  sound  Paddy 
the  Brick  thrust  the  stolen  utensil  out  of  sight  and 


AMBUSH 


249 


shot  a  stealthy  glance  at  the  upper  bunk,  but  its  occu- 
pant had  apparently  just  awakened. 

All  the  ensuing  morning,  as  he  rubbed  himself 
down  in  the  plenteous  cold  water  which  the  spigot 
provided,  and  did  his  share  in  the  cleaning  of  the 
bare  cell  —  while  he  sopped  his  brown  bread  in  the 
weak  breakfast  coffee,  and  presently  tramped  in  the 
long  file  to  the  shop  to  feed  the  voracious  machines 
with  the  clean-smelling  leather  —  all  the  while 
Harry's  brain  was  busy  with  the  message  he  had 
heard.  "Visitors?"  Occasionally  visitors  had 
passed  through  the  shops  —  panging  reminders  to 
him  of  the  world  outside.  Perhaps  in  some  devious 
way  the  other  had  heard  that  some  would  come 
to-day.  But  turn  and  twist  the  rest  of  the  words 
how  he  might,  they  meant  nothing.  Dinner  time 
came,  with  its  lifting  break  in  the  unvarying  monot- 
ony, then  the  long  lock-step  back  to  the  shop  and 
its  labour. 

The  work  had  come  to  be  far  more  welcome  to 
him  than  the  cell,  with  the  partner  to  whose  society 
he  was  chained.  The  hum  and  click  and  throb  stole 
his  thought,  and  the  automatic  movements,  in  which 
he  had  become  an  adept,  soothed  his  aching  mind. 
For  several  hours  this  afternoon  the  mechanical  occu- 
pation absorbed  him  and  he  worked  on,  noting  little 
about  him.  Then,  all  at  once,  as  he  turned  to  pick 
up  the  bit  of  cotton  waste  with  which  he  kept  the 
steel  clutches  of  the  machine  before  him  free  from 
dust,  he  became  conscious  of  something  unaccus- 


250     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

tomed.  His  own  machine  was  number  eight.  At 
the  one  adjoining,  number  nine,  which  was  next  to 
the  broad  middle  way  bisecting  the  shop,  Paddy  the 
Brick  was  wont  to  stand.  Now,  however,  another 
man  was  in  his  stead.  At  near  view  Harry  recog- 
nised him  as  one  whose  place  was  further  along, 
next  the  wall,  and  glancing  in  that  direction  he  saw 
that  Paddy  the  Brick  was  running  the  other's  ma- 
chine. 

The  meaning  of  the  "  wireless  "  message  leaped 
instantly  to  his  mind.  When,  after  dinner,  the  long 
line  had  broken  and  distributed  its  units,  the  man 
had  taken  number  nine,  and  the  exchange  had  been 
effected  so  quickly  and  naturally  that  it  had  been  thus 
far  unnoted  by  the  watchful  Superintendent  sitting 
moveless  on  the  raised  platform  at  the  end  of  the 
aisle,  his  revolvers  on  the  desk  before  him.  What 
did  the  transfer  mean?  Harry  wondered.  The 
men  nearby  worked  on,  but  they  seemed  to  be  rest- 
ive, waiting  for  something,  with  a  subdued  excite- 
ment and  anxiety.  As  he  glanced  sideways  toward 
the  newcomer,  at  the  haggard  parchment  visage,  lean 
and  ashen  with  the  pallor  of  long  confinement,  he 
noted  that  the  other  kept  his  back  to  the  platform 
and  his  head  studiously  bent  over  his  machine,  and 
there  darted  to  Harry's  recollection  what  Paddy  the 
Brick  had  said  one  day  to  him  —  of  the  "  lifer  "  and 
his  hatred  of  the  warden.  The  tapped  message  of 
the  morning  had  spoken  of  the  latter,  too.  "  Your 


AMBUSH  251 

.  .  .  chance !  "     Could  that  have  meant  the  chance 
to  "  get  "  the  man  he  hated? 

As  if  in  answer  to  the  startled  thought,  there 
sounded  voices  behind  him.  He  looked  over  his 
shoulder.  The  Warden  himself  was  entering  the 
door  at  the  end  of  the  shop,  and  there  were  visitors 
with  him. 

Then  instantly  every  conscious  thought  save  one 
fled  from  him  and  he  clapped  a  hand  to  his  mouth 
to  stifle  a  cry.  With  the  Warden  were  three  fig- 
ures, a  man  and  two  women,  and  the  women  were 
Echo  Allen  and  Nancy  Langham. 

A  sickness  like  that  of  death  rushed  upon  him. 
That  she  could  come  there  —  careless  of  the  chance 
that  she  might  see  him  in  these  loathsome  surround- 
ings —  a  common  convict,  with  cropped  hair  and 
striped  clothing,  marked  with  all  the  badges  of  the 
jailbird  —  smote  him  with  an  unendurable  pain. 
She,  who  knew  that  he  had  loved  her  —  to  see  him 
in  this  guise !  All  the  agony  he  had  suffered  rolled 
over  him  anew,  intensified  a  thousand-fold.  He 
pulled  his  cap-visor  low  over  his  eyes  and  snatching 
up  the  bit  of  oily  waste,  drew  it  across  his  cheek, 
smudging  his  face  from  chin  to  brow. 

The  little  group  of  four  had  paused  near  the  desk 
of  the  Superintendent,  the  Warden  smilingly  point- 
ing out  to  the  two  girls  the  details  of  the  work. 
Harry's  fingers  performed  their  task  by  sheer  in- 
stinct; for  his  very  life  he  had  not  been  able  to  help 


252      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

stealing  a  swift  sidelong  look  at  Echo's  face,  pale 
beneath  its  russet  cloud  of  hair,  and  he  distinguished 
with  a  fierce  bitterness  the  jaded  shadows  that  had 
crept  beneath  her  eyes,  tokens  that  belied  her  con- 
ventionally polite  show  of  interest.  So,  though  she 
condemned  him  to  this  torture,  she  too  suffered ! 

Could  he  have  looked  beneath  that  controlled  ex- 
terior he  would  have  discerned  a  pain  and  dread  to 
match  his  own.  With  that  luncheon  in  the  dining- 
car  a  sense  of  fate  had  fallen  upon  her,  heavy  and 
irrevocable,  as  though  some  huge  weight  was  closing 
down.  The  whip  of  conscience  had  driven  her  to 
this  day's  quest.  If  the  law  had  erred  —  if,  in  truth 
an  innocent  man,  as  Mason  believed,  lay  under  con- 
demnation—  it  was  for  lack  of  her  testimony:  the 
thought  had  laid  upon  her  sensitive  mind  a  new  sense 
of  guilty  responsibility.  She  must  be  certain,  beyond 
peradventure.  The  visit  to  the  Evelands  for  the 
Thanksgiving  season  had  furnished  the  opportunity 
and  the  round  of  the  Penitentiary  with  Malcolm 
had  arranged  itself.  It  had  been  easy  to  advert  to 
Mason's  belief  in  the  innocence  of  the  prisoner  he 
had  defended,  and  it  had  seemed  natural  enough 
for  her  to  ask  the  Warden  to  point  out  the  man  as 
they  went  through  the  shops.  They  had  now  en- 
tered the  room  in  which  he  had  told  her  the  man 
worked  —  she  was  standing  on  the  threshold  of  the 
knowledge  she  feared. 

She  started  at  the  Warden's  voice,  close  to  her 
ear,  above  the  rasping  clamour  of  the  machines: 


AMBUSH  253 

"  The  last  row,  at  the  end.  The  middle  machine  — 
that's  the  one." 

With  a  quick  intake  of  her  breath  she  looked 
where  he  pointed.  The  colour  faded  from  her 
cheeks.  Doubt  —  if  she  had  clung  to  doubt  —  was 
ended  now !  The  man  who  had  started  with  levelled 
pistol  from  behind  the  curtain  of  Craig's  library 
had  been  short  and  stocky  and  round-shouldered. 
The  side-face  of  the  distant  prisoner  at  whom  she 
was  now  looking  with  such  painful  intensity,  under 
the  shadow  of  his  cap-brim  showed  smudged  with 
oil  and  dust;  but  his  shoulders  were  broad  and 
straight  and  his  frame  tall  and  lithe.  Whatever  the 
law  said,  this  man  was  not  the  man  who  had  shot 
Craig!  She  alone  could  swear  it! 

She  felt  suddenly  a  kind  of  terror  of  the  place. 
She  touched  Malcolm's  arm.  "  I've  seen  enough  — 
please!  Could  we  turn  back  now?" 

The  Warden  overheard  and  nodded.  "  Just  wait 
here  a  moment,"  he  said,  "  and  we'll  go.  I  want  to 
take  a  look  forward."  He  strode  from  them  down 
the  broad  way  between  the  lines  of  workers. 

Harry  heard  the  step  behind  him  on  the  steel 
floor.  He  thought  the  others  were  with  him.  Un- 
der the  rattle  of  the  cogs  his  sick  imagination  caught 
the  swish  of  a  dress  —  almost  he  thought  he  caught 
a  faint  breath  of  a  familiar  perfume  —  and  he 
averted  his  face  till  they  should  pass.  It  was  by 
reason  of  this  that  his  lowered  eyes  caught  a  stealthy 
movement  in  the  man  at  the  next  machine  —  a  move- 


254     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

ment  of  one  hand  which  crept  under  his  jacket,  and 
jerked  forth,  clutching  something  shining  and  mur- 
derous. 

Harry  acted  without  conscious  thought,  by  swift 
and  certain  instinct.  As  the  lean  arm,  tense  with 
hate,  went  up  behind  the  Warden's  back,  he  leaped 
forward  with  a  cry  of  warning,  caught  the  wrist 
whose  hand  held  the  sharpened  file,  and  both  went 
down  clinched  and  struggling  together. 

The  cry,  sharp  and  strained,  pierced  across  the 
din.  It  brought  the  Superintendent  to  his  feet  on 
his  platform,  like  the  release  of  a  coiled  spring,  a 
revolver  in  either  hand. 

"  Back  to  the  door!  "  he  roared,  and  Malcolm's 
sinewy  arm  swept  the  two  girls  behind  him.  The 
fierce  clamour  of  a  bell  sounded  outside.  There  was 
sudden  pandemonium.  Doors  opened,  men  in  uni- 
form dashed  by  her,  and  on  the  platform  the  Super- 
intendent stood,  crouching  forward  like  a  panther 
about  to  spring,  still  as  a  statue,  both  hands  out- 
stretched with  their  gleaming  muzzles,  his  eyes  flash- 
ing over  the  room. 

In  that  desperate  struggle,  as  he  clung  to  the  mad- 
dened convict,  Harry  was  conscious  only  of  the 
strenuous  confusion  —  of  commands  that  snapped 
like  whip-lashes  —  of  the  burly  form  of  the  Warden 
above  him  and  that  of  a  "  trusty  "  who  snatched  at 
the  vicious  weapon  —  of  a  sudden  anguished  pang 
in  his  shoulder. 


AMBUSH  255 

Then,  swiftly  and  sweetly,  the  whole  world  slipped 
away  into  blankness  and  silence. 

A  half  hour  later,  as  Echo  and  Nancy  sat  with 
Malcolm  in  the  office,  on  the  ground  floor  of  the 
frame  building  just  inside  the  great  double  gates  of 
the  prison,  the  Warden  entered.  His  grave  face 
lightened  with  a  smile  of  reassurance. 

"  All  well,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "  It  came  close 
to  being  a  nasty  wound,  but  the  doctor  says  no  harm 
will  come  of  it,  though  he  will  be  in  the  hospital 
ward  for  a  week.  I  wouldn't  have  had  this  fracas 
happen  while  you  ladies  were  here  for  a  year's  sal- 
ary," he  added,  "  and  that's  a  fact !  " 

Nancy's  face  was  still  pale,  and  she  shivered  as 
he  spoke,  but  she  gave  a  little  laugh,  as  she  said, 
"  We  didn't  bring  you  luck  to-day,  did  we?  You'll 
be  wary  of  Friday  visitors  hereafter." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  he  asserted,  "  I'm  inclined  to 
think  I'm  a  mighty  lucky  man.  It  was  cunningly 
planned,  with  collusion,  too,  and  if  it  had  succeeded 
there  might  have  been  a  very  bad  hour  or  two  — 
for  everybody." 

Malcolm  turned  to  him.  "  The  man  saved  the 
situation,  Warden,  and  it  was  a  very  close  call,  in- 
deed. If  there  was  collusion  I  imagine  it'll  be  dan- 
gerous in  the  ranks  for  him  hereafter." 

The  Warden  nodded.  "  I've  thought  of  that 
The  trusty  who  has  been  clerking  in  the  Record- 


256      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

Room,  upstairs,  is  sick,  as  it  happens.  He  shall 
have  the  place.  He  sha'n't  come  to  any  harm  as 
long  as  I'm  in  charge,  rest  assured  of  that." 

He  went  with  them  to  the  great  double-gate. 
"  It's  a  curious  thing,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  as  they 
said  good-bye,  "  that  the  man  who  did  that  should 
have  been  the  very  one  we  had  been  talking  about, 
isn't  it?" 

The  same  thought  was  in  all  their  minds.  There 
had  flashed  across  Echo's,  too,  a  memory  of  her 
childhood,  a  revolting  incident  of  another  prison, 
where  a  hundred  convicts  had  risen,  had  killed  their 
keepers  and  for  two  days  had  run  desperate  riot 
within  the  enclosure  —  till  troops  had  been  rushed 
to  the  scene.  What  if  that  flaming  human  lava  had 
burst  beyond  control  to-day?  She  shuddered. 

A  single  hand,  maybe,  had  prevented  this  —  the 
hand  of  the  man  who  once  before  had  saved  her  — 
who  was  now  shut  in  this  horrible  place,  perhaps 
for  want  of  the  testimony  which  she  alone  could 
give! 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE    COMING   OF  JOHN   STARK 

HARRY  rose  from  his  seat  at  the  desk  in  the 
Record-Room  and  went  over  to  the  win- 
dow. The  frost  had  painted  silver  ferns 
and  sea  weed  on  its  pane,  and  the  prison  yard,  under 
the  high,  saffron-tinted  sun,  was  white  with  a  light 
powdering  of  snow  which  hid  its  harsh  outlines  and 
dingy  yellow  hue  with  a  mantle  of  purity  and  beauty. 
It  was  a  stinging  cold  though  sunshiny  afternoon. 
Along  the  wall  the  sentries,  as  they  paced,  swung 
benumbed  arms  to  start  the  sluggish  blood  coursing 
to  warmth.  Here  and  there  on  the  hard  ground  a 
pigeon  traced  its  feathery  footprints,  startling  the 
quarrelsome  sparrows,  and  above  in  the  clear  sky 
a  buzzard  drew  widening  circles,  an  ink-blot  on  the 
blue.  Across  the  open  space  came  the  muffled  roar 
of  the  shops  and  down  under  the  inner  gateway  the 
gate-keeper  was  stamping  his  Arctic-shod  feet  and 
whistling  "  Weep  no  more  my  lad-ee,"  in  syncopated 
time. 

Two  weeks  Harry  had  been  in  the  hospital  ward, 
for  after  those  months  of  confinement  the  depleted 
blood  had  made  recuperation  slow;  but  he  had  stead- 
ily mended,  and  now,  though  still  at  times  his  heal- 
ing shoulder  pained  him  somewhat,  he  was  practi- 
257 


258      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

cally  as  strong  as  before.  He  had  been  acutely 
grateful  for  the  change  to  the  pleasant  Record-Room, 
with  its  broad  window  to  the  sunshine  and  the  drier 
upper  air,  for  the  fact  that  he  no  longer  tramped 
in  the  lock-step  or  took  his  meals  in  the  common 
mess-room  —  most  of  all  for  release  from  his  un- 
savoury cell-mate.  For  since  the  affair  in  the  shop, 
he  had  been  given  a  cell  to  himself. 

His  momentary  glimpse  on  that  day  of  Echo  had 
stung  his  every  sense  to  quivering  protest.  It  had 
pierced,  as  with  a  fiery  sword,  the  torpor  which  had 
unwrapped  his  love  with  its  protecting  armour  and 
that  love  had  awaked  to  agonised  consciousness, 
vivified  and  intensified.  Then,  in  his  loneliness,  the 
knowledge  that  the  woman  he  would  have  died  for 
had  left  him  to  drag  out  his  penalty,  would  sweep 
over  him  till  a  fierce  hatred  of  her  would  rise  up  in 
him  —  to  be  swept  away  as  swiftly  by  something 
sweeter  and  stronger  that  would  not  be  denied.  So, 
in  the  end,  mingled  with  this  confusion  of  feeling, 
there  came  to  him  the  knowledge  that  the  bitter 
conviction  that  she  could  never  again  be  anything  to 
him,  with  the  contempt  for  life  which  had  grown 
from  it,  had  been  nevertheless  inexpressibly  softened 
by  the  living  warmth  of  her  presence,  sad  and  fleet- 
ing as  that  had  been. 

Presently  Harry  turned  back  to  the  desk,  and 
picked  up  the  annotated  card,  a  portion  of  whose 
record  he  had  been  about  to  transcribe  in  permanent 
form  in  a  leathern  tome  that  lay  there.  It  was  the 


THE  COMING  OF  JOHN  STARK     259 

filing-card  on  whose  reverse  side  was  pasted  his  own 
photograph,  full-face  and  profile,  and  containing  his 
physical  measurements  —  taken  upon  the  precise  and 
delicate  instruments  that  lined  the  room  —  which 
had  been  filled  out  on  the  day  of  his  arrival.  It 
was  the  sight  of  this,  with  the  bitter  memories  it 
evoked,  which  had  given  him  pause.  There  it  was, 
an  enduring  monument,  stamping  forever  the  man 
to  whom  it  corresponded,  a  convict,  thrust,  so  long 
as  he  should  live,  from  the  society  of  clean  and  up- 
right men  and  women,  debarred  even  from  the  exer- 
cise of  the  functions  of  citizenship! 

As  he  dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink,  a  quick  step 
sounded  on  the  stairway,  and  the  door  opened  to 
admit  a  man  wearing  a  frogged  overcoat  with  huge 
fur  collar  and  lapels,  and  a  fur  cap  whose  flaps  were 
turned  down  over  his  ears.  He  was  about  Harry's 
age  though  of  slightly  heavier  build,  with  somewhat 
similar  firm  chin  and  grey  eyes,  but  with  cheeks  in 
which  the  blood  darkled  redly,  and  across  one  was 
a  slanting  scar,  slight  but  sufficiently  perceptible. 
He  carried  a  small  valise  which  he  set  down,  blow- 
ing on  his  nattily-gloved  fingers. 

"Oh!  I  beg  pardon,"  he  said.  "The  Warden 
told  me  I  might  change  my  togs  up  here.  I  didn't 
know  the  room  was  occupied." 

"  You'll  not  disturb  me,"  answered  Harry.  "  As 
it  happens,  I  am  occupied  too." 

The  stranger  laughed  —  a  rather  eager,  boyish 
laugh  which  caught  Harry  with  a  subtle  tang  of  old 


26o      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

acquaintance.  With  the  pen  in  his  hand,  he  was 
staring  curiously  at  that  ruddy  cheek  and  its  slanting 
scar,  his  mind  following  something  elusive  and  far 
away.  He  was  feeling  the  edge  of  a  half-recollec- 
tion, vague  and  shadowy  and  dream-like,  of  a  saw- 
dust bar-room  floor  lighted  with  flaring  lamps,  of 
ribald  conversation,  of  a  deal  table  across  which  a 
face  like  that  had  looked  at  him.  But  the  memory 
at  which  he  grasped  had  belonged  to  that  phase  of 
intoxication  in  which  sense-impression  had  left  no 
enduring  record,  and  he  could  not  capture  it. 

John  Stark  was  unconscious  of  the  fixed  gaze. 
He  had  opened  the  valise  upon  a  chair  and  now  was 
laying  its  contents  upon  another.  Harry  saw  with 
surprise  that  these  included  a  striped  jacket  and 
trousers,  flat  peaked  cap  and  heavy  hob-nailed  shoes 
such  as  each  inmate  of  the  prison  wore.  Last  he 
took  out  a  flat  tin  box  which  opened  out  in  two  sec- 
tions, and  set  it  on  the  end  of  the  desk.  It  was  a 
"  make-up  "  box  of  the  stage  dressing-room,  and  the 
sight  of  its  tiny  compartments,  holding  rouge,  lamp- 
black, powder  and  grease-paint,  the  pencils  and 
hare's  foot,  brought  back  to  Harry  with  a  rush  old 
days  of  amateur  theatricals  and  society  stagery. 
These  articles  laid  out,  the  other  began  rapidly  to 
undress.  He  chuckled  as,  turning,  he  caught  the 
look  of  puzzle  on  Harry's  face. 

"  I'm  not  really  crazy,"  he  said  laughingly. 
"  The  fact  is,  I'm  trying  an  experiment  —  with  the 
Warden's  permission.  For  half  an  hour  I'm  going 


THE  COMING  OF  JOHN  STARK     261 

to  take  my  place  with  those  fellows  down  there;  "  — 
he  nodded  towards  the  window  —  "  going  in  to  sup- 
per with  them.  I  have  a  bet  on  with  the  Deputy 
Warden  that  I  can  do  it  so  that  none  of  the  Super- 
intendents will  spot  me !  " 

He  had  discarded  shirt,  collar  and  shoes,  and  was 
now  arraying  himself  in  the  coarse  striped  garments 
and  clumsy  foot-wear.  He  looked  himself  over 
half-humorously.  "  Ugh !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I 
swear,  it  gives  me  the  creeps.  This  is  the  real  stuff, 
you  see!  I  don't  get  the  true  spirit  of  the  thing 
when  I  play  it." 

"When  you  play  it?"  repeated  Harry,  inquir- 
ingly. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  other.  "  I  ought  to  explain.  I'm 
starring  in  *  The  Jail  Bird ' —  the  play  that's  on 
here  this  week.  I  have  the  title-role.  It's  a  fad 
with  me  to  get  up  my  '  business  '  first-hand,  and  this 
institution  is  too  good  a  chance  to  miss.  It's  mighty 
good  press-agent  stuff  for  the  local  papers,  inciden- 
tally! "  The  lid  of  the  tin  box  was  a  mirror,  and 
propping  this  upright,  he  now  busied  himself  with 
the  facial  make-up,  applying  a  greyish  grease-paint 
which  obliterated  the  scar  on  the  cheek  and  lent  the 
requisite  pallor,  and  deepening  this  with  darker  pen- 
cilled shades.  In  the  midst  of  his  labour  he  asked : 

"  Have  you  seen  the  piece?  " 

"  No,"  said  Harry,  grimly.  "  Our  business  here 
interferes  somewhat  with  our  evening  pleasures." 

Something  in  the  tone  made  the  other  look  up 


262      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

quickly.  Harry's  cap  had  been  pushed  back  when 
the  visitor  had  entered.  He  had  on,  also,  a  spot- 
less duck  over-jacket  which  buttoned  close  up  to  the 
throat.  Now  the  cap  was  pulled  low  on  his  fore- 
head, and  the  jacket  was  open,  revealing  the  tell- 
tale stripes  beneath.  The  actor  started. 

"  By  Jove !  "  he  ejaculated,  in  embarrassment. 
41 1  thought  —  I  didn't  know  — " 

"  So  I  perceived,"  said  Harry  calmly.  "  Pray 
do  not  apologise,  however.  The  atmosphere  does 
not  tend  to  develop  over-sensitiveness.  I  must  con- 
gratulate you  on  your  appearance.  The  effect  is 
really  wonderful." 

There  was  no  sarcasm  in  his  words:  the  illusion 
was  marvellously  carried.  When  the  peaked  cap 
was  pulled  over  the  other's  forehead,  a  little  to  one 
side,  Harry  thought  him  highly  likely  to  carry  off  his 
wager  with  the  Deputy  Warden. 

At  the  moment  the  bell  sounded  —  the  signal  to 
knock  off  work  for  the  early  supper  —  and  John 
Stark  rose  hastily.  "  I'm  off  now  for  the  lock-step," 
he  said,  with  his  hand  on  the  door.  "  By  the  way, 
if  these  duds  of  mine  are  in  the  way,  chuck  'em  in 
some  other  room.  I  can  dress  anywhere." 

The  brogans  clattered  down  the  stair. 

Harry  went  to  the  window  and  watched  him  cross 
the  yard,  a  turnkey,  wearing  a  suppressed  grin,  by 
his  side.  Then  he  returned  to  the  desk,  but  his  pen 
lay  idle  by  his  hand.  The  curious  visit,  with  its 
whiff  of  the  outside  world,  had  been  packed  with 


THE  COMING  OF  JOHN  STARK     263 

clutching  reminders  of  things  that  had  had  pleasant 
part  in  his  past  —  reminders  of  society  nights  when, 
for  sweet  charity's  sake,  he  had  played  those  old 
mimic  roles.  Some  one  entered,  bringing  his  supper 
in  a  tin  pail,  and  went  out  again,  but  he  did  not  look 
up.  He  was  thinking  with  bitterness  that  the  flip- 
pant masquerader,  sitting  now  with  that  striped  com- 
pany in  the  mess-room,  would  presently  emerge,  free 
to  pass  out  into  the  glad  world.  It  would  be  only 
a  lark  to  laugh  over,  an  essay  in  effrontery  per- 
formed for  a  wager  and  the  delectation  of  a  press- 
agent  ! 

Harry  suddenly  felt  the  longing  to  be  free  take 
him  by  the  throat,  so  that  he  trembled  in  every 
limb  with  the  force  of  it.  He  smelled  the  wind 
racing  across  frosty  meadows ;  he  could  almost  fancy 
that  he  heard  the  flow  of  river-water  under  its  icy 
coverlet;  he  could  almost  see  the  gnarled  catalpas 
along  the  Allen  driveway  lifting  their  wintry  twisted 
arms  toward  him.  What  would  it  not  mean  to  him 
if  he,  like  that  cheerful  stroller,  might  but  slough 
off  this  hateful,  unnatural  character  and  step  forth, 
himself  again! 

He  started.  A  thought  mad  as  a  nightmare  had 
flashed  through  his  brain.  He  felt  his  blood  beat 
to  his  temples;  then  instantly  he  became  icily  cool 
and  tense  in  every  nerve. 

In  another  moment  he  had  thrown  off  his  over- 
jacket,  and  was  seated  before  the  make-up  box. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE   UNDERSTUDY 

WITH  the  certainty  of  ancient  practice  he 
applied  rouge  and  pencil  deftly  to  his  face, 
rubbing  in  a  deeper  tinge  on  the  cheeks, 
shadowing  the  temples,  accentuating  by  ever  so  little 
the  corners  of  eyes  and  mouth.     Lastly  he  drew  a 
slanting  scar  on  the  right  cheek,  emphasising  it  a 
trifle,  as  the  keynote  of  the  counterfeit. 

He  looked  at  himself,  swiftly,  critically.  There 
was  but  the  one  double  gate  and  the  single  watch- 
man to  pass  —  and  the  sunlight  was  not  bright  under 
the  archway !  And  luckily  the  fur  cap,  with  its  ear- 
flaps,  effectually  hid  the  cropped  scalp.  He  wasted 
no  time  in  changing  clothes,  but  turned  up  the  striped 
trousers  and  the  sleeves  of  the  jacket  and  donned  the 
smart  habilaments  over  his  prison  rig,  the  extra  lin- 
ing compensating  for  his  slighter  form.  In  five  min- 
utes he  was  completely  dressed,  even  to  spats  and 
flaunting  tie.  All  the  while  he  was  thinking  rap- 
idly and  coolly,  weighing  contingencies,  estimating 
chances,  taking  into  lightning  account  each  detail 
which  might  mean  the  slenderest  advantage  in  the 
desperate  game.  Lastly  he  thrust  his  prison  cap 
under  his  coat  and  put  the  make-up  box  and  the  tin 
dinner-pail  into  the  empty  valise. 
264 


THE  UNDERSTUDY  265 

Overcoated  and  with  the  valise  in  his  hand,  he 
strode  to  the  door  —  to  come  back  to  his  desk  with 
a  quick  afterthought,  to  pick  up  the  record-card  that 
bore  his  own  number,  and  slip  it  into  an  inner  pocket. 
Then  he  opened  the  door  and  went  quickly  down  the 
stair. 

Fate  was  kind.  The  Warden  was  not  in  his 
office.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  at  that  very  moment, 
with  outward  gravity  yet  with  inner  amusement,  he 
was  witnessing  John  Stark's  nonchalant  experiment 
and  finding  the  bit  of  clever  impersonation,  under 
the  very  eyes  of  his  unsuspecting  assistants,  vastly 
diverting. 

Harry  went  out  to  the  gate. 

The  watchman  looked  up,  surprised.  "  Hello !  " 
he  said.  "  The  half-hour  isn't  up  already,  is  it? 
Or  did  you  weaken?  " 

Harry  laughed.  "  Not  I !  "  he  answered,  airily. 
"  I've  had  no  end  of  a  lark.  I'd  have  stayed  longer 
only  I've  got  a  rehearsal  on.  I  could  have  pulled 
the  wool  over  their  eyes  for  a  week!  "  As  he  spoke 
he  drew  out  a  silver  cigarette-and-match  box  which 
his  hand  had  encountered  in  the  overcoat  pocket,  and 
lighted  a  cigarette  behind  his  cupped  hands.  In  that 
crucial  instant  he  dared  not  look  at  the  face  so  near 
him  and  his  heart  seemed  to  flutter  and  then  stop 
beating  —  till  there  came  the  ponderous  grind  of 
the  great  lock  as  the  inner  gate  swung  open. 

The  watchman  was  chuckling  as  he  unlocked  the 
outer  barrier.  "Well,  that's  one  on  the  Deputy 


266      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

Warden ! "  he  said  appreciatively.  "  You're  a 
clever  one  to  have  pulled  it  off !  " 

Harry  stepped  jauntily  through.  "  Come  and 
see  me  do  it  on  the  stage,"  he  said,  nodding  a  brisk 
good-bye.  "  It's  up  to  the  Warden  to  stand  tickets 
all  round,  I  should  think!  " 

The  gate  clanged  shut  behind  him. 

The  sound  sent  to  his  soul  the  first  agonised  stab 
of  futility.  He  had  won  through  those  pitiless  en- 
circling walls,  yet  what  chance  had  he  of  ultimate 
escape,  after  all,  there  on  the  highway,  in  that  recog- 
nisable costume,  with  scant  grace  at  best  from  pur- 
suit? Then,  even  as  the  cold  wave  of  hopelessness 
swept  over  him,  he  saw  something  which  sent  his 
blood  running  like  quicksilver;  it  was  the  actor's 
empty  motor  standing  at  the  side  of  the  road. 

In  another  minute  he  was  in  its  seat,  his  grip  on 
the  wheel,  his  hand  touching  the  lever  of  the  self- 
starter.  It  was  not  of  a  make  which  he  knew,  but 
he  had  always  been  an  ardent  motorist,  had  known 
every  cog  and  bearing  of  his  own  car's  intricate 
mechanism,  and  before  the  machine  was  well  under 
way  he  had  mastered  its  essentials. 

As  the  snow-dusted  road  spun  out  behind  him,  he 
drew  deep,  gasping  breaths  of  the  cold  air  and  felt 
the  dimming  sunshine  on  his  face  like  the  touch  of 
some  magical  elixir,  yet  he  was  free  from  agitation, 
his  mind  was  working  clearly  and  coolly.  The 
alarm  would  come  soon.  When  the  genial  young 
tragedian  returned  to  the  office  building,  he  would 


THE  UNDERSTUDY  267 

be  likely  to  assume  that  his  suggestion  had  been 
acted  upon,  and  his  clothing  bestowed  in  another 
room.  Subsequent  inquiry  might  be  worth  a  few 
minutes.  The  absence  of  Harry's  cap  and  the  tin 
pail  would  suggest  that  he  had  gone  to  his  cell  to 
eat  his  supper,  a  privilege  that  was  his  when  he 
cared  to  avail  himself  of  it  —  this  would  be  good 
for  a  few  minutes  more.  A  general  search  of  the 
buildings  would  be  next  in  order.  How  soon  the 
inquiry  would  embrace  the  watchman  at  the  outer 
gate  could  not  be  guessed.  Altogether  he  might 
count,  perhaps,  on  a  half-hour.  He  could  cover  few 
miles  in  that  time,  and  telephone  and  the  clicking 
wire  would  soon  be  busy.  It  would  be  the  automo- 
bile that  would  be  first  traced,  and  the  sentries  on 
the  wall  would  report  the  direction  he  had  taken. 
He  must  rid  himself  of  the  car,  and  somehow  double 
on  his  trail ! 

Far  to  the  right,  across  wastes  of  snowy  fields  and 
numb,  glittering  trees,  a  line  of  telegraph  poles 
thrust  up  darkly  against  the  skyline.  A  quick  plan 
flashed  to  his  mind.  The  road  was  topping  a  gentle 
rise  now,  where  the  wind  had  swept  the  hard  ground 
clear  of  the  light  snow.  He  stopped,  and  cast  a 
glance  before  and  behind  him;  no  vehicle  was  in 
sight.  He  sprang  out  and  pulled  out  the  rails  of 
the  fence  that  lined  the  road,  then  ran  the  motor 
into  the  field  and  into  a  hollow  of  dead,  rustling 
stalks,  where  stood  a  group  of  hayricks  which  would 
effectually  hide  it  from  the  highway.  He  left  the 


268      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

fur-overcoat  and  the  valise  in  the  car,  replaced  the 
fence-rails  and  ran  across  the  field  to  the  railroad 
track.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  further  along  stood  a 
small  country  station  and  he  turned  his  steps  thither, 
making  shift  as  he  went  to  wipe  the  grease-paint 
from  his  face  with  John  Stark's  perfumed  handker- 
chief. 

The  ticket-seller,  who  combined  with  his  duties 
those  of  freight  and  express  agent  and  general 
factotum,  was  sweeping  out  his  tiny  box  of  an 
office.  "What  is  the  next  train  west?"  inquired 
Harry. 

"  None  till  nine  to-night,"  was  the  reply. 
"  There's  one  due  in  twenty  minutes,  but  she  only 
stops  for  through  passengers." 

Before  entering  Harry  had  gone  through  John 
Stark's  pockets ;  now  he  pushed  a  bill  under  the  little 
wicket.  "  I  happen  to  be  going  through,"  he  said 
easily. 

The  other  made  out  the  ticket  with  deliberation, 
laboriously  counted  the  change  and  leisurely  went  out 
to  the  platform  to  affix  the  red  flag.  The  minutes 
that  passed  thereafter  the  lone  passenger  was  all 
his  life  to  remember  as  a  ghastly  interval  measured 
by  dragging  epochs  that  drew  themselves  snail-like 
across  some  incalculable  duration  of  time.  When 
the  express  came  to  its  grinding  stop  cold  drops  of 
perspiration  were  on  Harry's  face.  He  swung  him- 
self aboard  and  went  forward  to  the  day-coach. 

Five  minutes  later  the  train  stopped  at  a  water- 


THE  UNDERSTUDY  269 

tank,  to  refresh  the  thirsty  engine.  A  half  mile 
away,  outlined  sombrely  against  the  dusky  evening 
blue,  rose  a  huddle  of  dingy  yell  rw  walls.  The  occu- 
pant of  the  seat  in  front  of  him  leaned  to  look 
through  the  window. 

"What  are  those  buildings?"  he  asked  interest- 
edly of  the  conductor,  who  was  passing  down  the 
aisle. 

"  That's  the  State  Penitentiary,"  was  the  answer. 

As  he  spoke  through  the  silence  there  came  a  deep, 
dull  boom,  repeated  again  and  again  —  the  sound  of 
a  monster  bell,  tolling. 

"What's  that?"  the  other  asked.  Windows 
went  up  along  the  car.  Harry  lifted  his  also,  with 
outward  coolness  but  with  a  curious  spasm  of  the 
heart.  The  conductor  stooped  to  peer  beside  him. 

"  It's  the  alarm,"  he  said.  "  A  prisoner  must 
have  escaped." 

Amid  excited  exclamations  the  train  started  again, 
and  the  conductor  withdrew  his  head.  "  They'll 
soon  get  him,"  he  predicted,  as  he  punched  Harry's 
ticket.  "  The  poor  devil  won't  get  far  in  those 
striped  clothes  they  make  them  wear!  " 

"  No,"  said  Harry.     "  I  fancy  he  won't." 

Night  had  fallen,  the  dark  relieved  by  the  dim 
lustre  of  a  thin  new  moon,  when  Sevier  rose  and 
sauntered  back  to  the  platform.  The  train  was  pass- 
ing through  a  defile  and  laboriously  puffing  up  a 
grade.  He  looked  back  into  the  lighted  car;  no  one 


270      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

was  observing  him.  He  buttoned  his  coat  close 
about  him  and  poising  on  the  lowest  step  to  choose 
his  ground,  sprang  off  into  a  snowbank. 

He  had  made  his  leap  with  all  the  care  possible, 
but  the  speed  of  the  train  was  such  that  only  the 
snow  and  his  padded  clothing  saved  him  from  serious 
injury.  As  it  was  it  was  some  minutes  before  he 
could  regain  his  breath,  and  then  it  came  with  a  keen 
stab  that  seemed  a  sword  piercing  his  shoulder  —  a 
sharp  complaint  from  the  recent  wound.  He  rose 
painfully,  but  at  the  first  step  collapsed  with  a  groan, 
realising  that  he  had  twisted  his  ankle  badly.  With 
lips  compressed  from  the  wretched  pang,  he  rose 
again  and  set  the  injured  member  to  the  ground, 
forcing  it  to  bear  his  weight.  For  a  while  each  step 
was  agony,  then  this  dulled  somewhat  and  he  went 
steadily  on,  limping  along  the  uneven  ties. 

When  he  came  to  the  crest  of  the  rise  he  stopped 
and  looked  about  him.  He  knew,  roughly,  where 
he  was.  Across  the  dark  valley  unrolling  at  his 
feet  under  a  sky  that  shook  with  stars,  he  could  dimly 
make  out  another  darker  ridge.  Beyond  lay  a 
deeper  valley  and  beyond  that  the  foot-hills  of  the 
Blue  Ridge,  and  there,  forty  miles  away  as  the  crow 
flies  —  how  far  by  the  irregular  route  he  must  take 
he  could  not  estimate  —  lay  his  mountain  lodge,  the 
lonely  little  demesne  of  forest  and  stream,  whither 
he  had  been  wont  to  go  for  summer  weeks  of  hunt- 
ing and  fishing,  with  its  rough  but  spacious  bungalow 
presided  over  by  his  care-taker,  old  "  Jubilee  Jim," 


THE  UNDERSTUDY  271 

whose  father  had  been  a  slave  of  his  father  before 
the  Civil  War. 

Forty  miles  as  the  crow  flies !  Across  a  difficult 
and  sparsely-settled  country,  with  now  only  the  faint 
moonlight  and  a  natural  instinct  of  direction  to  guide 
him,  in  patent-leather  shoes  and  with  a  sprained 
ankle ! 

He  set  his  teeth  and  plunged  down  the  declivity 
through  the  tumbled  rocks  and  snow-drifts. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE   CRUCIBLE 

ECHO  stood  at  the  gate  of  Midfields,  her 
gloved  hand  delaying  to  close  it,  her  eyes 
gazing  down  the  featureless  street  along 
which  yellow  window-squares  were  beginning  to 
spring  out,  and  vague  figures  moved,  now  standing 
out  sharply  under  the  newly  lighted  arc-lamps  at  the 
crossing,  now  vanishing  beyond  into  the  chill  wind- 
less dusk.  Behind  her  lay  the  purpling  lawn,  with 
its  tumult  of  leaves  under  the  acacias,  the  oaks  with 
their  red-lipped  foliage  and  the  tall  chrysanthemums 
at  the  edge  of  the  frost-touched  grass  that  stretched 
like  the  skins  of  young  fawns  about  the  great  house 
with  its  fluted  columns,  dim  and  grey  now  in  the  deep- 
ening twilight.  About  her  were  only  the  quiet  of 
the  cold  evening,  the  bewildered  shadows  huddling 
beneath  the  shrubs,  and  the  faint  snap  of  frosty  tree- 
branches  in  the  tightening  of  the  first  bonds  of  win- 
ter, above  only  the  windless  silence  and  a  wild  white 
moon  flowing  through  dusky  wreaths  of  cloud. 

But  she  felt  no  soothing  influence  in  the  hush. 

Her  mind  was  far  away,  in  another  city  and  state; 

her  thought  had  entered  again  the  gloomy  prison 

which  she  had  visited  with  Nancy  Langham  and 

272 


THE  CRUCIBLE  273 

Malcolm  —  on  a  day  when  a  prisoner  had  inter- 
vened to  save  the  Warden's  life.  The  peace  of  au- 
tumn evenings  brought  no  comfort  to  that  place,  save 
it  were  the  mere  rest  of  wearied  bodies.  A  city  of 
itself,  it  was  as  alien  to  that  city  so  near  it,  of  com- 
fortable homes  and  pleasant  people  which  she  had 
visited,  as  the  deep  life  of  the  coal-miner  is  alien  to 
that  of  the  free  hunter  who  breathes  the  sweeter  air 
a  thousand  feet  above  the  other's  sunless  toil.  Out- 
side of  those  walls  folk  were  eager  and  merry;  inside 
lights  were  dim,  life  itself  sluggish  and  inept;  there 
were  sore  hearts,  sterile  hopes,  smouldering  hatreds, 
an  oligarchy  of  despotism  ruling  with  slow  cruelties, 
a  community  of  apathy  and  despair. 

Since  her  return  from  the  Langhams  she  had 
moved,  so  it  seemed  to  her,  in  a  kind  of  sombre 
dream  in  which  her  daily  duties  were  mechanical  and 
involuntary  and  her  only  real  life  that  inner  con- 
sciousness which  had  writhed  and  struggled  unceas- 
ingly. A  sense  of  actual,  personal  guilt  bound  her, 
by  a  bond  stronger  than  steel,  to  that  unknown  pris- 
oner in  the  Penitentiary,  weighing  upon  her  spirit  as 
heavy  as  a  promise  to  the  dead. 

What  should  she  —  what  was  she  bound  to  do? 
Which  way  should  she  turn?  There  was  Mason's 
opinion,  based  upon  a  long  and  sensitive  intercourse, 
that  the  man  was  no  criminal;  that,  had  he  been  ab- 
solved of  attempted  murder,  he  could  have  cleared 
himself  of  the  baleful  association.  But  that,  after 
all,  was  only  Mason's  opinion.  He  might  be  wrong. 


274     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

And  if  so,  though  the  man  had  not  fired  the  shot,  he 
was  a  partner  in  his  comrade's  iniquity,  a  party  to 
the  greater  guilt.  An  enemy  to  society,  his  penalty 
was  just  and  right.  Was  she  called  upon,  on  such 
an  empty  hypothesis,  to  take  upon  herself  a  horrible 
mantle  of  notoriety?  So  she  had  reasoned,  but  the 
self-accusation  had  remained,  not  to  be  argued  back 
by  casuistry,  a  stern  visitant  that  stood  insistently  be- 
fore her,  pointing  the  stern  finger  of  denunciation. 

As  she  stood  by  the  gate  in  the  dusk,  she  shivered 
as  though  the  still  cold  penetrated  beneath  her  furs. 
She  must  tell  the  truth !  Whatever  the  result,  she 
must  disclose  the  part  she  had  played.  She  had  no 
thought  that  this  might  be  accomplished  without  pub- 
licity, or  that  testimony  which  might  be  basis  for  ex- 
ecutive action  could  be  secret.  In  imagination  she 
pictured  herself  standing  before  the  same  tribunal  by 
which  an  innocent  man  had  been  condemned,  telling 
her  story  to  the  impartial  and  impersonal  Law  — 
telling  it  openly,  before  all  the  world  I 

The  world  ?  It  was  not  this  thought  which  in  this 
moment  of  harrowing  decision  seemed  to  scratch  her 
soul  like  an  etcher's  needle.  She  was  thinking  now 
only  of  Harry  Sevier.  He  stood  out  alone,  sharply, 
clearly  defined  against  the  meaningless  multitude. 
She  could  no  longer  take  refuge  in  her  pride;  that 
had  vanished  long  ago  in  the  misery  of  his  absence. 
She  wanted  him,  and  him  only,  desired  him  with  all 
the  strength  of  her  woman's  love,  which  had  been 


THE  CRUCIBLE  275 

sharpened  and  deepened  by  the  experiences  through 
which  she  had  been  passing.  When  he  returned,  it 
would  be  to  find  her  the  centre  of  an  open  scandal, 
sprung  to  new  and  sensational  life  —  the  "  myste- 
rious woman  "  who  had  been  blazoned  in  a  hundred 
headlines,  her  name  no  longer  spotless,  but  cheap- 
ened by  tawdry  mystery  and  smirched  by  innuendo ! 
Would  it  not  kill  any  vestige  of  love  his  heart  might 
still  hold  for  her? 

And  yet  beneath  her  dread  and  apprehension  there 
had  come  to  her  in  her  struggle  the  awakening  of 
something  as  deep  and  imperative  as  her  love  — 
the  insistent  "Thou  shalt!  " — the  nascent  must  of 
truth  and  honour,  fruit  of  generations  of  clean  an- 
cestry, which  brought  clearer  vision  and  resolve. 

She  turned  from  the  gate  at  length,  her  step  drag- 
ging as  if  from  weariness.  She  had  a  strange  feel- 
ing that  in  that  final  hour  of  decision  .she  had  grown 
physically  and  mentally  old. 

As  she  neared  the  house,  there  came  from  the 
placid  street  the  raucous  honk  of  a  motor  and  the 
sound  of  masculine  voices  lifted  in  a  song  whose  re- 
frain solicitously  inquired  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  a 
certain  dog  named  Rover.  The  chording  was  some- 
what uncertain,  but  any  lack  was  more  than  made  up 
by  laughter  and  noise.  She  recognised  the  baritone 
as  that  of  her  brother,  Chisholm. 

Chilly  jumped  down  at  the  gate,  and  as  the  au- 
tomobile turned  and  sped  back,  its  occupants  calling 


276      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

jovial  good-byes,  he  ran  after  her  up  the  drive. 
Overtaking  her,  he  leaned  to  kiss  her  cheek,  as  she 
caught  a  familiar  odour  upon  his  breath.  She 
turned  her  face  aside. 

He  noted  this  with  a  little  laugh.  "  Come, 
prunes  and  prisms,"  he  said,  "out  with  it!  Yes, 
I've  had  a  drink  —  numerous  ones,  in  fact.  Now 
on  with  the  lecture;  let  joy  be  unconfined !  " 

"When  did  I  ever  lecture  you,  Chilly?"  Echo 
answered,  dully. 

"  You  have  been  pretty  decent,  that's  a  fact, 
Echo,"  he  responded,  with  humorous  lugubriousness. 
"  I  wish  father  took  after  you  more !  " 

They  had  reached  the  porch  now  and  he  stole  a 
quick  glance  through  the  window.  "  I  discern  the 
shadow  of  my  doting  parent  aforesaid,"  he  re- 
marked flippantly,  "  and  having  a  due  regard  for  the 
proprieties  —  and  peace  —  I  think  I'll  slip  in  the 
side-door  and  give  the  prodigal  a  wash-up  and  a 
clove  before  he  enters  the  lion's  den." 

He  nodded  laughingly  and  left  her  to  enter  the 
front  door  alone. 

A  few  minutes  later,  divested  of  coat  and  furs,  she 
came  into  the  drawing-room  where  her  father  and 
mother  sat,  the  former  with  his  magazine  and  the 
latter  perusing  the  evening  paper.  Mrs.  Allen  with- 
drew her  lorgnette  and  looked  up. 

"  By  the  way,  Echo,"  she  said.  "  Here's  the  clos- 
ing chapter  of  the  adventure  you  and  Nancy  had  at 
the  jail."  She  turned  the  page  and  read  aloud: 


THE  CRUCIBLE  277 

"  It  became  known  to-day  that  a  dangerous  crim- 
inal escaped  day  before  yesterday  and  got  clean 
away  from  the  Penitentiary  of  our  sister  state. 
The  prisoner,  who  was  serving  a  term  of  twenty 
years  for  burglary,  a  few  months  since  shot  down 
Mr.  Cameron  Craig,  the  well  known  financier,  in 
his  library  at  midnight.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that 
there  will  be  a  close  examination  into  what  appears 
to  be  a  glaring  exhibition  of  lax  methods  and  un- 
pardonable carelessness  on  the  part  of  the  prison 
authorities." 

Echo  could  not  have  had  a  deeper  sensation  of 
amazement  and  relief.  A  wave  of  excitement  had 
passed  over  her,  leaving  her  cool  and  self-possessed, 
and  able  to  take  a  natural  part  in  the  conversation 
that  followed.  But  in  her  heart  she  was  saying  over 
and  over : 

"  I  am  safe  —  safe !  There  is  no  question  now  of 
my  telling!  The  secret  is  mine  —  mine  —  mine!  " 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

SANCTUARY 

IN  his  little  cabin,  close  by  a  big  log-walled 
bungalow  on  a  lonely  slope  of  the  Blue  Ridge, 
now  snugly  frozen  in  by  its  winter  snows,  old 
"  Jubilee  Jim  "  lay  in  a  deep  sleep.  The  moonlight, 
paling  before  the  coming  dawn,  came  through  the 
single  window,  lighting  dimly  the  seamed  black  face 
on  the  pallet,  the  sacks  of  flour  and  beans  in  the  cor- 
ner, a  side  of  bacon  hung  against  the  wall  and  strings 
of  dried  red-peppers  and  bunches  of  herbs  suspended 
from  the  rafters.  On  the  floor  before  the  fire-place, 
in  which  a  few  red  embers  still  glowed,  snored  a  yel- 
low hound,  gaunt  and  long  of  limb. 

There  was  no  other  house  within  miles  of  the 
place,  but  solitariness  was  a  habit  with  Jubilee  Jim, 
and  he  did  not  miss  human  companionship.  Ten 
years  before,  the  man  who  had  chosen  that  wild  spot 
and  had  built  the  bungalow  for  occasional  summer 
outings  with  his  chosen  comrades,  in  which  they 
might  shoot  and  fish  and  live  in  primitive,  health-giv- 
ing fashion,  has  ensconced  the  old  negro  there  as 
general  cook  and  care-taker.  He  had  built  himself 
a  tight  little  cabin  close  at  hand  and  remained  there 
year  in  and  year  out  to  guard  the  building  against 
the  frequent  forest  fires.  In  his  pottering  negro 
278 


SANCTUARY  279 

way  he  was  a  Jack  of  many  trades,  in  the  summer  cul- 
tivating a  little  cleared  patch  of  "  garden  truck " 
back  of  his  cabin  and  in  winter  trapping  small  game, 
and  of  evenings  poring  over  his  Bible,  spelling  out 
the  words  laboriously  —  a  gift  he  had  learned  many 
years  before  from  some  country  "  missioner." 
Three  or  four  times  a  year,  leaving  the  lean  hound 
in  possession,  he  trudged  ten  miles  to  the  nearest  vil- 
lage for  what  supplies  he  needed.  But  on  these  oc- 
casions he  felt  no  temptation  to  remain  with  his  kind, 
toiling  back  contentedly  to  his  little  cabin,  his  hound, 
and  his  Bible. 

Suddenly,  in  the  tense  frozen  silence,  the  great 
hound  stirred  and  lifted  his  head  with  a  low  guttural 
growl.  His  master  woke  and  turned  on  the  creak- 
ing couch. 

"  He-e-sh !  "  he  said  impatiently.  "  Whut  fo'  yo' 
want  ter  mek  dat  noise  en  steal  mah  sleep !  " 

At  the  remonstrance  the  lean  tail  thumped  the 
board  floor,  but  another  louder  growl,  deep  and  men- 
acing, came  from  the  shaggy  throat.  The  old  negro 
lifted  himself  and  listened. 

"  Sumpen  out  dar!  "  muttered  Jubilee  Jim,  strain- 
ing his  ears,  for  now  he  caught  the  sound  that  had 
pricked  the  acuter  hearing  of  the  animal  —  a  curious, 
struggling  sound  like  something  wallowing  in  heavy 
snowdrifts. 

"  Sumpen  big! "  Jubilee  Jim's  wrinkled  face 
looked  puzzled  in  the  moonlight  and  his  eyes  rolled 
to  the  wall  where,  on  two  wooden  pegs,  sat  an  old- 


280     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

fashioned  shot-gun.  "  Don'  reck'n  et's  er  bar!  "  he 
whispered  to  the  hound.  "  Ain't  ben  no  bar  eroun' 
hyuh  en  mawn  thuhty  yeahs !  "  He  got  up  and  set 
his  ear  to  the  crack  of  the  door.  As  he  bent  his 
stooped  frame,  something  lunged  against  the  wall 
outside,  and  at  the  sound  the  hound's  bristles  rose 
and  he  sent  forth  a  fierce,  rumbling  bay  that  rattled 
the  window. 

"  Et's  er  man!  "  said  Jubilee  Jim.  He  turned 
hastily  to  the  rough-hewn  table  and  lighted  a  lantern ; 
then  snapping  a  chain  into  the  dog's  collar  and  teth- 
ering him  to  the  wall,  he  went  to  the  door  and  lifted 
its  heavy  bar.  It  opened  inward  and  there  half 
stumbled,  half  fell  across  the  threshold  a  snowy 
figure  that  collapsed  at  his  feet. 

"  Mah  Lawd !  "  ejaculated  the  old  man.  "  What 
he  doin'  hyuh?  " 

With  a  sharp  word  to  the  leaping,  raging  hound, 
he  dragged  the  recumbent  body  inside,  shut  the  door, 
and  lighted  a  bundle  of  pine  knots  in  the  fire-place. 
In  the  bright  yellow  light  that  flooded  the  cabin  he 
knelt  down  and  examined  the  man  who  lay  there. 
He  drew  off  the  frosty  fur  cap  from  the  close-clipped 
head.  The  coat  was  stiff  with  frost  so  that  he  had 
trouble  to  unbutton  and  remove  it,  and  the  shoes 
were  broken.  He  took  a  knife  and  carefully  cut 
them  off  from  the  feet,  noticing  with  quick  pity  that 
one  ankle  was  swollen  to  twice  its  natural  size. 

"  Reck'n  yo'  mos'  froze  ter  def !  "  said  Jubilee  Jim. 
"  En  starved  too !  "  He  rummaged  on  a  shelf, 


SANCTUARY  281 

found  an  iron  skillet  containing  some  broth  and  set 
it  close  to  the  blazing  wood.  Then,  he  drew  the 
limp  figure  upon  his  couch  and  began  to  remove  the 
clothing,  now  wet  and  clinging. 

As  he  opened  the  shirt,  however,  he  started  back 
with  an  exclamation. 

Well  he  knew  what  that  jacket  with  its  black  and 
yellow-grey  stripes  meant!  Had  he  not  often  seen 
the  sullen  chain-gang  breaking  stone  on  the  mountain 
roads  ?  The  man  who  lay  before  him  was  a  criminal 
in  desperate  flight  in  stolen  garments!  He  could 
tie  him  fast,  unconscious  and  helpless  as  he  was,  and 
leave  the  dog  to  guard  him,  while  he  went  down  to 
the  town  for  officers.  But  as  he  thought,  something 
else  came  to  his  mind.  "  Sick  en  in  prison,  en  ye 
visited  me !  "  he  muttered.  "  De  Good  Man  he  say 
dat.  Dis  hyuh  man  done  been  in  prison,  en  he 
moughty  sick  too.  What  dee  Good  Man  do,  Ah 
wondah?  Reck'n  he  ain'  gwine  lock  him  up,  not 
'treckly,  nohow  I  " 

He  saw  a  crimson  stain  that  spread  over  the 
stripes.  He  touched  it  —  it  was  blood. 

Five  minutes  later,  in  the  wanning  cabin,  he  was 
examining  an  opened  wound  in  the  shoulder  of  the 
insensible  man.  He  washed  it  carefully  and  bound 
it  up  with  some  of  the  medicinal  herbs  that  hung 
from  the  rafters.  This  done,  he  took  the  skillet 
from  the  fire-place  and  with  a  spoon  forced  a  little 
of  the  hot  liquid,  drop  by  drop,  between  the  clenched 
teeth.  Under  these  ministrations  a  semblance  of 


282      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

life  began  to  return  to  the  exhausted  frame,  and  with 
it  the  chilled  body  rushed  into  a  fever.  The  head 
began  to  roll  from  side  to  side  and  the  lips  to  mutter 
indistinguishably. 

The  hound  had  grown  quiet  now,  and  released 
from  the  chain,  came  to  sniff  at  the  bunk.  All  at 
once  he  flung  up  his  great  head  with  a  low  howl, 
then,  crouching,  licked  the  nerveless  hand  that  hung 
down. 

Jubilee  Jim  looked  in  startled  amaze,  then  seized 
the  lantern  and  held  it  close.  "  Who  dis  hyuh?  " 
he  said. 

As  if  at  the  challenge,  the  eyes  in  the  white  face 
opened  and  for  a  single  instant  consciousness  flick- 
ered there.  "  Jube  — "  said  a  weak  voice,  "  you 
—  old  —  scoundrel — "  Then  the  eyes  closed  and 
the  mutterings  recommenced. 

The  lantern  rattled  on  the  floor,  as  the  old  negro 
fell  upon  his  knees  by  the  pallet.  "  Et's  him!  "  he 
cried.  "  Dee  Lawd  he'p  1  Et's  Marse  Harry 
hese'f !  "  He  leaned  and  looked,  with  a  painful  be- 
wilderment, at  the  striped  garments,  the  smooth, 
clipped  scalp.  "  Huccome  he  got  dem  close  on?" 
he  said  to  himself,  half-fearfully.  He  stood  a  mo- 
ment looking  from  them  to  the  pallet,  then  hastily 
rolled  the  sodden  things  into  a  bundle  and  thrust 
it  out  of  sight  behind  one  of  the  sacks  on  the 
floor. 

Late  the  next  afternoon  the  smoke  from  the  stone 


All  at  once  the  hound  flung  up  his  great  head  with 
a  low  howl,  then,  crouching,  licked  the  nerveless 
hand  that  hung  down 


SANCTUARY  283 

chimney  of  the  big  bungalow  rose  in  a  pale  spiral 
into  the  keen  windless  air.  Inside  a  leaping  fire  of 
chestnut  wood  burned  on  the  huge  hearth  and  Harry 
lay  on  a  comfortable,  blanket-covered  couch  in  the 
corner.  All  day  long  Jubilee  Jim  had  watched  be- 
side him,  as  he  tossed  in  delirium,  now  and  then 
touching  the  hot  hand,  laying  cooling  cloths  on  the 
fevered  wound,  or  feeding  him  with  a  spoon.  He 
had  not  dared  go  down  the  mountain  to  fetch  a  doc- 
tor, fearing  to  leave  his  patient  so  long  alone. 

All  day,  as  he  watched,  his  slow  brain  had  been 
busy  with  the  strangeness  of  that  arrival  —  most  of 
all  with  the  mystery  of  the  striped  clothes.  To  his 
simple  intelligence,  unvexed  by  the  complexities  of 
life  in  communities,  evil  and  good  stood  out  in  sharp 
and  irreconcilable  contradistinction,  and  the  gar- 
ments were  a  harrowing  symbol.  But  deep  in  him 
was  that  profound,  unreasoning  belief  —  the  South's 
touching  legacy  of  ante-bellum  days  —  that  trust  and 
confidence  that  is  dog-like  and  unswerving. 

Towards  evening,  when  the  sick  man  became 
easier  and  he  lay  more  quietly,  though  his  fever  ran 
high,  Jubilee  Jim  opened  the  door,  and  stood  looking 
out  onto  the  lone,  frosty  hillside.  The  sun  was  go- 
ing down  amid  a  flutter  of  scarlet  scarfs  and  the 
marbled  pines  stood  in  sombre  clusters  outlined  like 
sentinels  above  the  pansied  twilight  of  the  snowy  val- 
ley. At  length  he  knelt  down  and  with  gnarled 
hands  clasped  and  eyes  still  on  the  colourful  sky,  he 
said: 


284     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

"  O  Lawd,  Ah  don'  know  what  mek  Marse  Harry 
come  hyuh  lak  dis.  But  yo'  knows  what  he  done  f o' 
ole  Jube.  Keep  him  yeahs  en  yeahs,  feed  him,  en 
when  he  so  sick  he  gwine  die,  tek  en  git  er  doctah  en 
cure  him  up.  When  ah  so  old  ah  ain'  no  good  no 
mo'  he  gimme  dee  Ian'  up  hyuh  fo'  tuh  live  on. 
Don'  do  nuffin  cep'n  watch  dee  house,  en  when  he 
come  sometimes  Ah  cooks  f  o'  him  —  das  all  I  Ah 
don'  know  whaffuh  he  have  on  dem  wicked  clo's  — 
don'  keer  nuth'n  erbout  dat.  Kase,  Lawd,  Marse 
Harry  ain'  ben  fo'  tuh  do  nuth'n  bad.  Dey  tek  yo' 
darlin'  son,  dee  Book  says,  en  put  er  crown  o'  tho'ns 
on  he  beautiful  haid,  en  he  ain'  done  nuth'n  'tall  cep'n 
good.  Ah  don'  keer  what  Marse  Harry  have  on; 
Ah  reck'n  when  he  come  lak  dis,  Yo'  gwine  he'p  me 
he'p  him  —  kase  das  what  he  done  fo'  me !  " 

As  the  earnest  voice  ceased,  another  spoke  behind 
him.  "Jube!" 

The  old  man  rose  hastily  and  came  to  the  couch. 
"  Yo'  knows  me  ergen,  Marse  Harry?  " 

"  Yes,  Jube.     When  —  did  I  get  here  ?  " 

"  Dis  mawnin',  suh,  befo'  sun-up." 

"Was  any  one  else  here?" 

"  No,  Marse.  Ain'  ben  nobody  up  hyuh  sence 
dee  fust  snow-fall." 

Sevier  was  silent  a  moment,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
black,  affectionate  face.  "Jube  —  bring  me  the 
things  I  —  had  on." 

The  other  crossed  the  room  and  came  back  with 
a  suit  which  he  laid  on  the  blanket. 


SANCTUARY  285 

Sevier  shook  his  head  feebly.     "  Not  those.     The 

—  others." 

Jubilee  Jim  hesitated,  then  turned  and  left  the 
room.  When  he  came  back  the  striped  garments 
were  in  his  hands. 

"  Do  you  —  know  what  —  those  are?  " 

The  faithful,  old  face  turned  a  little  away.  "  Ah 
reck'n  dem  am  some  new-fangelly  fishin'-close,"  he 
said,  after  a  pause. 

A  faint  flicker  of  a  smile  touched  the  sick  man's 
face.  He  understood.  "  Put  them  —  into  —  the 
fire." 

Sevier  watched  him,  as  he  obeyed.  He  was  very 
weak  and  his  blood,  poisoned  from  the  opened 
wound,  was  throbbing  with  fever.  He  was  preserv- 
ing consciousness  only  by  a  great  effort,  but  his  gaze 
held  Jubilee  Jim's  steadily. 

"  Jube,  I  want  —  no  one  to  —  know  when  I  — 
came,  or  that  I  —  am  here  —  at  all  .  .  .  No  one 
.  .  .  Do  you  —  understand?" 

"  Yas,  suh." 

"I'm  going  —  to  be  —  sick.     But  —  no  matter 

—  how  sick  I  —  no  one  is  to  —  be  brought  here 
.  .  .  not  a  doctor  .  .  .  nor  —  any  one."     Harry's 
strength  was  failing  now,  and  the  words  trailed  into 
indistinctness. 

"  Yas,  Marse  Harry." 
"I  ...  trust  you  ...  Jube !  " 
That  was  all.     He  was  gone  again  into  the  fe- 
vered delirium. 


286      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

All  that  night,  and  for  many  days  and  nights  there- 
after, old  Jubilee  Jim,  faithful  to  his  word,  struggled 
with  death  over  the  body  of  Harry  Sevier. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

JUBILEE   JIM'S   JOURNEY 

HARRY  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the 
Bungalow,  one  hand  shading  his  eyes, 
looking  down  the  twisting  trail  to  where, 
far  below,  a  dark  blotch  toiled  up  the  slope. 
During  three  days  he  had  been  alone,  for  Jubilee 
Jim  had  gone  upon  a  journey  to  the  city  where 
lay  the  old  life  from  which  Harry  had  fled  on  the 
day  he  had  ceased  to  be  himself.  The  snows  were 
gone  and  an  early  spring  day  of  azure  and  gold  lay 
over  the  satiny  stillness  of  the  folded  hills.  The 
fresh,  pleasant  air  was  full  of  the  whirr  of  birds  and 
the  smell  of  new  bark  and  bursting  buds,  the  slender 
birches  were  unfurling  the  virginal  green  of  their 
young  leaves,  and  here  and  there  on  the  hillsides 
blossoms  were  showing.  All  nature  was  fulfilling 
its  annual  mission  of  rebirth,  audaciously  triumphing 
over  autumn's  death  and  winter's  sepulture. 

The  stalwart  figure  standing  on  the  threshold  was 
good  to  see.  The  fever  that  had  followed  that  ter- 
rible night  of  physical  exhaustion  had  been  worsted 
at  last  by  Jubilee  Jim's  homely  medicaments  and  the 
balm  of  peace  and  sleep.  There  had  been  days 
when  Harry  had  been  perilously  near  the  Great  Ad- 
venture, but  assiduous  nursing  and  a  splendid  native 
287 


288      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

constitution  had  in  the  end  conquered.  The  pure 
air  of  the  balsam  forest  and  the  comfort  of  the  soli- 
tude had  at  length  had  their  way  with  him.  The 
flesh  had  come  back  to  the  wasted  frame,  the  old 
brightness  to  the  eye,  and  the  flush  of  perfect  health 
to  the  skin.  Now,  with  his  curling  hair  and  his 
crisp  dark  beard,  trimmed  as  of  old,  he  was  again 
the  Harry  Sevier  of  a  year  before  —  save  that  back 
of  the  eyes  was  a  steady  something,  a  deep  conscious 
strength  that  had  come  to  him  from  those  bitter 
prison  months  when  his  soul  had  been  tried  in  a  fiery 
furnace  of  pain. 

Sevier  dropped  his  hand  with  a  long  sigh  of  relief, 
for  at  a  turn  in  the  path,  the  dark  blotch  had  resolved 
itself  into  the  figure  of  a  man,  followed  by  a  great 
dog  harnessed  to  a  little  cart.  "  It's  Jube !  "  he  said 
aloud.  "  He's  made  the  trip  safely,  and  he's  got  the 
things!" 

This  journey  had  been  the  outcome  of  much 
thought  on  Harry's  part.  Lying  there  in  the  long 
weeks  of  convalescence,  his  mind  had  been  busy  with 
the  problem  of  the  future.  What  to  do  ?  He  could 
not  stay  forever  there  on  the  mountain,  a  lonely  her- 
mit. Somewhere,  he  must  take  up  life  again. 
When  he  had  beguiled  those  dark  prison  moods  with 
thoughts  of  freedom,  his  imagination  had  pictured 
flight  to  some  distant  country  where,  under  a  bor- 
rowed name,  he  might  find  a  refuge,  barren  as  that 
refuge  might  be  of  all  life's  sweetness.  Freedom 
now  was  his.  Should  he  put  the  past  forever  behind 


JUBILEE  JIM'S  JOURNEY  289 

him,  make  his  disappearance  good,  and  without  more 
ado  drop  out  of  sight  and  sound  forever?  All  his 
instinct  rebelled  against  this  drastic  solution,  this  cav- 
alier denial  of  life  and  its  mental  exercise  for  a  ca- 
reer of  empty  futility. 

What  remained  then?  To  go  back  to  the  life  he 
had  left  behind  him  on  the  day  he  ceased  to  be  Harry 
Sevier? 

Why  not?  He  was  free  —  free  to  be  himself 
again.  Only  one,  beside  Echo,  had  known  that  he 
and  the  captured  house-breaker  were  identical  — 
that  was  Craig.  And  Craig  had  been  taken  from  his 
path.  And  who  else  would  connect  Harry  Sevier, 
the  lawyer,  the  club-man  of  well-known  and  reput- 
able past,  the  favourite  of  drawing-rooms  —  who 
could  ever  associate  him  with  a  tawdry  burglar  and 
desperate  convict  who  had  escaped  from  a  peniten- 
tiary in  another  State  ?  Once  more  bearded  and  eye- 
glassed,  without  scar  or  mark  to  point  resemblance 
or  beckon  identification,  recognition  would  be  the 
wildest  improbability. 

Once,  as  he  bettered,  Jubilee  Jim  had  gone  to  the 
valley  below  to  return  with  a  bundle  of  back-copies 
of  the  County  newspaper,  and  as  Harry  pored  over 
these  avidly,  the  old  life  had  cried  to  him  from  every 
line.  The  movement  that  had  been  called  into  life 
by  the  Civic  Club,  in  the  hour  when  he  had  made  the 
first  speech  of  his  life  that  had  been  untinctured  with 
any  personal  ambition  or  selfish  motive,  had  gained 
momentum;  it  had  taken  on  party  organisation  and 


29o     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

would  be  a  force  to  be  reckoned  with  in  the  coming 
campaign.  On  that  day  he  had  had  his  first  taste 
of  the  joy  of  battle  for  a  principle,  and  he  longed  in- 
expressibly to  throw  the  power,  of  which  he  was  now 
more  than  ever  conscious,  into  the  struggle  for  the 
new  ideal. 

Suppose  he  went  back,  and  Craig  recovered  the 
mind  that  was  now  in  eclipse  —  recovered  and  re- 
membered-? What  then  ? 

His  safety  lay  in  the  fact  that  no  one  possessed 
the  clue  to  the  unthinkable  reality.  Craig,  if  he  re- 
covered, would  possess  this,  and  if  he  in  his  right 
senses  denounced  him,  the  accusation,  spectacular 
and  incredible  as  it  might  seem,  would  have  to  be 
seriously  met.  And  he  could  not  meet  it,  for  it 
would  be  true !  So  long  as  Craig  lived,  the  harrow- 
ing danger  would  always  be  there  —  a  veritable 
Sword  of  Damocles !  Would  not  his  future  be  for- 
ever a  dubious  adventure,  haunted  always  by  a  tor- 
turing shadow  and  the  dread  of  discovery  and 
shame?  In  fancy  he  saw  himself  seized  —  to  be 
suddenly  confronted  with  that  shameful  thing,  to 
face  a  cloud  of  witnesses,  be  dragged  back  to  a  cell, 
despised  and  broken,  once  more  a  convict  —  that,  or 
else  flight,  cringing  and  furtive,  with  the  hounds  of 
the  law  in  cry ! 

And  yet,  did  not  the  chances  that  Craig  would  not 
regain  his  faculties  vastly  preponderate  ?  The  news- 
papers Harry  had  read  had  not  contained  the  item 
chronicling  Craig's  journey  to  Buda-Pesth,  and  re- 


JUBILEE  JIM'S  JOURNEY  291 

covery  was  not  an  imminent  possibility  to  his  mind. 
A  year  had  gone  by,  and  all  the  skill  that  wealth 
could  invoke  had  no  doubt  been  applied,  and  vainly. 
Even  if  sometime  he  to  some  extent  recovered,  it  was 
more  than  likely  that  his  memory  of  that  fatal  night 
in  his  library  would  be  impaired.  So  Harry  told 
himself. 

Over  and  over  he  followed  the  trail  of  painful  re- 
flection, in  a  vicious  circle  that  centred  always  in  the 
one  thought  that  sent  his  mind  shrinking  in  upon  it- 
self —  Echo.  What  would  that  old  life  be  to  him, 
denied  its  old  relations  ?  He  and  she  were  nothing 
to  one  another  any  more:  she  was  only  a  stinging 
memory.  And  he  would  see  her,  meet  her,  talk 
with  her,  always  with  that  sickening  pretence  of  ig- 
norance between  them,  in  a  painful  hypocrisy,  till  she 
should  love  and  marry  —  some  one  else  than  him! 
A  wave  of  sick  revolt  had  surged  over  him  at  the 
thought.  What  to  him  was  freedom,  even  life  it- 
self, if  each  hour  held  the  thumb-screw  and  the  rack? 

Thus  his  resolve  had  swung  back  and  forth,  pen- 
dulum-like, tiring  itself  with  the  endless  question,  and 
much  thinking  had  brought  him  no  nearer  a  solution. 
Meanwhile  time  had  been  passing,  and  pending  final 
decision  it  was  necessary  for  him  in  some  measure  to 
pick  up  the  old  threads.  There  were  responsibili- 
ties which  he  had  not  yet  laid  down.  There  were 
his  apartment,  his  servants,  his  office  —  for  though 
provision  of  a  sort  had  fortunately  been  made  for  a 
time,  his  affairs  must  now  be  put  upon  a  securer  basis 


292      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

which  would  permit  of  his  taking  whatever  course 
should  seem  best.  So,  finally,  he  had  sent  Jubilee 
Jim  on  the  long  journey,  after  thoroughly  schooling 
the  old  man  on  the  part  he  was  to  play.  By  him  he 
had  sent  a  letter  to  his  man  of  business,  with  minute 
instructions  which  would  enable  his  affairs  to  be  put 
in  order,  another  to  his  bank  directing  the  sale  of 
certain  securities  for  cash  to  be  held  at  his  instant  de- 
mand, a  third  to  Suzuki,  his  Japanese  valet,  instruct- 
ing him  to  send  clothes,  and  other  needful  articles, 
his  private  papers  and  a  few  books  —  for  solace  in 
this  solitude  until  he  should  have  determined  what 
to  do. 

"  Good,  Jube !  "  said  Harry,  as  the  old  negro  came 
into  the  room  carrying  the  big  bundle  from  his  little 
cart.  "You  got  everything,  then?" 

"  Yas,  Marse  Harry.  Ah  brung  dem  all  —  dee 
papers,  en  dee  close,  en  dee  money  f 'um  dee  bank,  en 
all.  Moughty  glad  ah  got  dis  'yer  ole  dawg  erlong, 
wid  sech  er  heap  o'  money  on  me !  Reck'n  Ah  spent 
er  lot  —  had  tuh  pay  er  qua'tah  bof  ways  fo'  him 
tuh  ride  on  dee  baggage-cyah :  wouldn't  let  him  in 
dee  smokah  nohow.  Dey  argyfied  he  too  big.  " 

Harry  spread  out  the  clothing  on  the  table  — 
suits  of  fashionable  cut,  speaking  loudly  and  insist- 
ently of  the  old  life.  Those  he  wore  at  the  moment 
had  once  been  modish  too,  but  their  one-time  owner 
would  no  longer  have  recognised  them,  for  they 
were  threadbare  and  as  battered  as  the  home- 


JUBILEE  JIM'S  JOURNEY  293 

made  moccasins  on  Harry's  feet.  At  the  first  oppor- 
tunity he  purposed  anonymously  to  send  John  Stark 
double  their  value,  with  certain  articles  the  garments 
had  contained  —  watch,  cigarette-case,  cuff-links  and 
what-not  —  now  wrapped  in  a  little  package  in  a  safe 
hiding-place. 

Harry  turned.  "  Well,  Jube,  tell  me  all  about  it. 
When  you  got  off  the  train,  where  did  you  go  first?  " 

"  To  de  bank  fust.  Man  dah  was  moughtily 
s'prised  tuh  git  yo'  lettah.  *  Reck'n  Mistah  Sevier 
gwine  tuh  Africy  er  sumwhah,'  he  say." 

"  Where  did  you  go  next?  " 

"  To  Marse  Dick  Brent's  office  —  whah  dey  meks 
dee  newspapahs.  Foun'  him  settin'  dah  wid  er  pipe 
in  he  mouf,  lookin'  jes'  ez  nachul  ez  life,  same  ez 
when  he  up  hyuh  wid  yo'-all  dat  time.  Ah  cert'n'y 
glad  tuh  see  Marse  Brent,  en  he  ax  pow'ful  lot  o' 
questions  'bout  yo'.  *  Mah  Ian'!'  he  say;  'Tuh 
think  he  up  in  dat  ole  mount'n  all  dis  God's-blessed 
time,  loafin'  eroun'  en  gittin'  fat  ez  er  buzzard,  when 
we-alls  is  wu'kin'  ouah  souls  tuh  deff,  en  polytics 
gittin'  red-hot.  Whaffoh  he  do  dat?  When  he 
come  up  dar,  Jube  ?  '  *  Well,'  Ah  says,  c  Ah  ain'  got 
no  haid  fo'  gogerfy,  Marse  Brent,  but  Ah  reck'n  et 
mus'  a  ben  las'  fall  sometime.  En  den  Marse  Harry 
ben  moughty  sick  in  dee  fall  en  wintah.'  *  Sick  I ' 
he  say.  *  Yo'  ole  rascal,  yo'  ain'  got  no  mo'  sense 
dan  er  snake  have  hips !  Why  yo'  don'  sen'  no  word 
home  erbout  it?  '  *  Marse  Harry  he  say  not  tuh,'  I 
say.  *  Clar'  he  ain'  gwine  be  no  trubbil  tuh  nobody. 


294      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

So  Ah  doctahs  him  en  nusses  him,  en  aftah  while  he 
git  all  right  ergen.  On'y  he  so  fon'  o'  de  ole  bunga- 
low he  jes'  cain'  bear  tun  leave  et.'  '  Sho ! '  he  say. 
'  When  Ah  thinks  o'  dis  hyuh  ole  wuk,  Ah  reck'n  Ah 
don'  blame  him  none.'  Den  he  tek  me  down  tuh  yo' 
place  fo'  dee  clo's  en  things  —  walkin'  erlong  wid 
me  jes'  lak  Ah  been  yo'-se'f.  *  Moughty  lot  er  folk- 
ses  sorry  yo'  Marse  Harry  ain'  erbout  no  mo',  Jube,1 
he  say.  *  Speakin'  o'  dat,'  he  say,  *  dahs  one  o'  dem 
ar'  folkses,  Ah  reck'n,  comin'  down  dee  street  dis 
minute ! '  Ah  looks  up  en  Ah  sees  er  moughty 
pretty  young  lady,  tall  en  white  lak  er  big  lily.  '  Dat 
Miss  Echo  Allen,'  he  say." 

Harry  turned  away  abruptly  and  looked  out  of 
the  open  doorway.  His  face  had  paled. 

"  Marse  Brent  tek  off  he  hat,  en  he  say,  '  Miss 
Echo,  what  yo'  reck'n  dee  las'  spectaculous  news  is? 
Harry  Sevier  been  up  at  ole  Blue  Mount'n  all  dis 
yeah ! '  Well,  suh,  seems  lak  dat  lady  so  s'prised 
she  mos'  faint  right  on  dee  spot.  Den  dee  colah 
come  back  in  huh  cheeks  en  she  laugh  —  moughty 
happifyed  laugh,  but  somehow,  et  got  er  little  cry  en 
it  too,  sumwhah.  She  look  at  me,  en  huh  eyes  jes' 
de  coloh  o'  er  cat-buhd's  aig.  *  Dis  'yer  Jubilee  Jim 
Sandahs,'  Marse  Brent  say,  '  whut  cook  fo'  Sevier's 
outfit  up  dah,  en  he  also  er  numbah  one  nuss,  kase 
dee  young  loaf  ah  ben  sick.  Bet  yo'  ben  ovah-f  eedin' 
him,  Jube.'  Miss  Echo  she  walk  down  dee  street 
wid  we-all,  clar  tuh  yo'  house.  Ax  how  yo'  is  now, 
how  yo'  look,  is  yo'  got  thinnah  —  fifty  hundud 


JUBILEE  JIM'S  JOURNEY  295 

things  she  ax  erbout.  Ole  Jube  he  sho'  reck'n  dat 
lady  think  er  pow'ful  sight  o'  yo',  Marse  Harry!  " 

Harry  choked  back  an  exclamation  of  misery. 
Every  word  had  been  like  a  hot  needle  thrust  into  a 
quivering  nerve.  Her  face,  with  its  ivory  clearness, 
under  its  wonderful  whorl  of  red-gold  hair  —  her 
eyes  deep  as  sky-mirroring  pools  in  late  sun-light  — 
her  laugh,  her  voice !  He  suddenly  seemed  to  feel 
the  actual  touch  of  her  hand  in  his,  as  vastly  sweet  as 
the  shadow  of  rose-leaves. 

"  Marse  Harry,"  said  Jubilee  Jim,  humbly,  "  dee 
ole  man  don'  know  whuffoh  yo'  come  hyuh  dis  time, 
er  whuffoh  yo'  so  long  'way  f'om  home.  Am'  mah 
biz'ness,  Ah  knows.  But  dee  mount'n  ain'  no  place 
fo'  folks  tuh  stay,  cep'n  fo'  ole  Jube  whut  lib  hyuh 
allus.  En  Marse  Harry,  down  dah  in  dee  city,  ev'y 
one  jes'  waitin'  en  watchin'  fo'  yo'.  Marse  Brent, 
en  ...  en  dee  pretty  lady,  en  all !  " 

There  was  a  long  silence.  At  last  Harry  turned 
from  the  doorway. 

"  Thank  you,  Jube,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"  Now  ?—  tell  me  about  Aunt  Judy." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THE   CALL 

IN  the  big  living-room,  now  flooded  with  the 
mountain  sunshine  that  streamed  in  through  the 
open  door,  Richard  Brent  leaned  to  knock  the 
ashes  from  his  pipe  against  the  end  of  the  hewn 
bench  on  which  he  sat.  Then  he  looked  up  at  Sevier 
standing  in  front  of  the  empty  fire-place. 

"Well,"  he  asked,  "what  do  you  think  of  it? 
How's  that  for  a  chance,  eh?  " 

Sevier  nodded.  One  hand  was  tugging  at  his  dark 
beard,  the  other  was  clasping  and  unclasping  nerv- 
ously behind  him.  "  The  new  organisation  can't 
win,  of  course,"  he  answered  quietly.  "  Politically 
speaking  it's  too  young,  and  it  lacks  leaders.  But  it 
can  make  a  strong  showing,  I  should  think." 

Brent  laughed  as  he  explored  his  capacious  to- 
bacco-pouch. '*  Especially  if  the  platform  is  built 
wide  enough."  He  pointed  to  a  newspaper  he  had 
brought  with  him,  that  lay  beside  him.  "  That  edi- 
torial of  mine  hits  the  nail  squarely  on  the  head. 
There  is  one  issue  and  only  one  which  will  draw  in 
all  the  elements  opposed  to  the  party  that  now  rules 
—  that  is  the  liquor  issue.  That  must  go  in !  " 

A  quick  gleam  crossed  Harry's  face.  None  but 
he  knew  what  liquor  had  done  for  him,  no  eye  but  his 
296 


THE  CALL  297 

might  see  the  pitiful  trail  it  had  dragged  across  his 
burnished  life ! 

Brent  laughed  again.  "  It's  strange  that  they 
don't  see  it!"  he  said.  "Can't  they  deduce  any- 
thing. Look  at  the  growth  of  similar  movements 
in  other  states.  Do  they  really  believe  that  any  gen- 
uine good-government  party  can  sit  in  the  same  sad- 
dle with  John  Barleycorn?  That's  why  the  thing 
has  always  failed  in  the  past  —  compromise,  tempo- 
rise, fusion.  Fiddlesticks!  why  can't  they  take  the 
bull  by  the  horns?  They  would,  too,  if  there  was 
some  one  who  would  crystallise  the  thing  in  their 
minds."  He  shot  a  keen  side-glance  at  Harry. 
"  When  you  made  that  Civic  Club  speech  last  year," 
he  said  shrewdly,  "  I  picked  you  for  the  Peter  the 
Hermit  of  the  new  Gospel.  And  then,  confound  it ! 
you  bury  yourself  in  the  wilds  up  here,  while  every 
one  thinks  you've  gone  abroad,  and  I  have  to  pack 
my  rheumatic  bones  twenty  miles  on  an  infernal 
burro,  to  dig  you  out  of  your  shell !  " 

Harry's  eyes  had  been  absently  fixed  on  the 
spread-out  newspaper.  Something  in  the  other's 
words,  in  his  manner,  caught  him.  A  colour  came 
to  his  cheeks.  "  Dig  me  out  of  my  shell?  "  he  re- 
peated. "  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  " 

Brent  looked  at  him  intently  for  a  long  second. 
During  the  past  year  he,  like  others,  had  wondered 
at  his  friend's  long  absence.  At  first  he  had  put  it 
down  to  natural  need  of  vacation  and  the  other's 
failure  to  communicate  with  his  friends  had  seemed 


298      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

significant  of  no  more  than  the  mild  eccentricity 
which  had  always  flavoured  his  actions.  Only  later 
the  thought  had  come  to  him  that  Harry's  absence 
might  be  due  to  an  affair  of  the  heart.  This  to  him 
had  pointed  unerringly  to  Echo  Allen,  and  conviction 
had  leaped  to  a  certainty  on  the  day  when  he  had 
seen  her  reception  of  Jubilee  Jim's  news  of  Harry's 
whereabouts.  Had  it  been  a  lovers'  quarrel?  he 
had  wondered.  If  so,  and  she  had  sent  him  away, 
she  had  repented  of  it,  that  was  manifest.  The 
news  of  Harry's  whereabouts,  in  his  mind,  had  dove- 
tailed with  his  knowledge  of  the  political  situation 
and  its  need  of  leadership,  and  the  second  day  there- 
after had  found  him  on  horseback,  following  the 
difficult  trail  to  Harry's  mountain  eyrie.  He  had 
come  to  grips  now  with  his  errand.  He  sat  sud- 
denly upright. 

"  Sevier,"  he  said,  "  you've  got  to  do  it.  You  are 
the  only  one  who  can.  You've  got  to  speak  at 
that  convention  on  the  seventeenth  and  nail  that 
plank  into  the  platform  hard  and  fast !  " 

Harry  made  a  quick  gesture,  then  left  the  fire- 
place and  began  to  stride  up  and  down  the  room. 
During  that  silent,  insistent  gaze  it  had  come  to 
him  with  a  strange  glow  of  excitement  what  Brent 
intended  to  say.  His  heart  was  beating  quickly,  and 
a  host  of  conflicting  emotions  were  rioting  in  his 
mind.  The  allusion  to  his  speech  of  a  year  ago  had 
brought  a  throb  of  the  old  ecstasy  of  power  —  that 
power  which  he  knew  was  his  now,  and  in  greater  de- 


THE  CALL 


299 


gree.     If  he  only  might  use  it  for  this  good  purpose ! 

Brent,  looking  at  him,  uncrossed  his  long  legs 
with  a  smile.  "  I  agree,"  he  said,  "  that  we  may  not 
be  able  to  win  this  time,  but  it  will  start  it  off  right, 
and  it  will  be  a  good  fight.  I'll  bet  you  what  you 
like  that  within  a  week  —  if  that  plank  is  rightly 
hammered  in  —  the  Good-Government  Clubs  all 
over  the  State  will  be  wiring  allegiance !  " 

He  got  up,  his  lank,  nervous  figure  braced  with 
interest. 

"  And  what  if  we  do  lose  this  Governorship?  It 
will  be  the  first  real  nail  in  John  Barleycorn's  coffin 
in  this  State !  " 

Sevier  had  sat  down  on  the  blanketed  couch. 
His  gaze  went  past  the  eager  face  before  him  and 
lingered  on  the  sweet,  warm  world  outside,  with  all 
its  suggestions  of  new  growth  and  virile  strength. 
But  what  he  really  saw  was  very  far  away.  Was  he 
a  poor  coward  then,  to  shrink  from  a  woman's  smile, 
a  woman's  eyes?  He  put  his  face  in  his  hands. 
Possibilities  were  beckoning  to  him,  dead  things 
springing  up  alive,  old  longings,  ambitions,  appe- 
tences plucking  at  him. 

For  a  time  Brent  did  not  speak.  He  had  turned 
away  and  stood  in  the  sunny  doorway,  looking  down 
the  trail.  At  length  he  faced  about. 

"  Sevier,"  he  said  quickly.  "  What  do  you  say? 
Will  you  do  it?" 

Harry  looked  up.  The  colour  had  faded  from 
his  face,  but  it  was  alight  with  a  new  energy  and 


300      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

resolution.  The  call  had  found  him,  and  at  that 
moment  the  harrowing  dread  —  the  problem  itself, 
which  had  shown  so  imminent  —  seemed  to  have 
grown  dim,  to  have  drawn  into  the  far  distance. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  slowly,  "  yes,  Brent.     I  will 
come." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THE   CHALLENGE 

LOOKING  back  upon  that  day,  Sevier  was 
often   to  wonder  whether   indeed  he   had 
missed  Fate's  purpose,  and  blinded  by  a  per- 
sonal ambition,  had  set  its  plan  at  naught.     For 
that  instant's  decision  was  to  prove  the  key  to  a 
series  of  fateful  doings  which  bore  him  on,  irre- 
sistibly, into  a  line  of  action  from  which,  deliber- 
ately, he  must  have  shrunk. 

But  having  set  his  hand,  it  was  characteristic  of 
him  that  he  did  not  falter.  It  had  required  resolu- 
tion to  put  Echo  and  his  relations  with  her  into  the 
background,  but  he  accomplished  even  this,  and  he 
allowed  no  thought  of  possible  complications  to  af- 
fect his  mental  serenity.  His  face  was  composed 
and  determined  as  he  descended  from  the  train,  at 
dusk  of  the  sixteenth,  at  the  familiar  city  station, 
to  find  —  as  Brent  had  arranged  —  his  motor  wait- 
ing for  him,  with  Bob,  his  chauffeur,  wearing  a  broad 
grin  of  welcome,  at  its  door.  So  pleasantly  habitual 
it  all  seemed,  so  sharply  remembered  was  each  sight 
and  sound  as  the  car  sped  through  the  glimmering 
traffic,  that  almost  he  could  have  believed  the  past 
301 


302      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

year,  full  as  it  had  been  of  pain,  a  vacuous  dream 
and  that  no  hideous  hiatus  had  lain  between  the  then 
and  now. 

He  was  sensible  for  the  first  time  of  the  intense 
mental  strain  he  had  been  labouring  under  since  his 
sluggish  prison  routine  had  opened  into  this  dubious 
freedom  —  the  tension  of  his  struggle,  the  instinct 
of  impending  catastrophe,  and  the  ghastly  doubt  of 
himself  where  Echo  was  concerned.  The  lassitude 
and  inaction  of  the  Bungalow  had  added  to  this 
strain.  The  relief  now  of  movement  and  action 
brought  surcease,  and  a  feeling  of  present  confidence, 
if  not  of  definite  security.  Before  he  reached  his 
apartment,  he  was  sufficiently  himself  to  give  the 
welcome  he  received  from  Aunt  Judy  and  from 
Suzuki  a  feeling  of  usualness.  Brent,  with  two  or 
three  others  who  saw  eye  to  eye  with  him,  so  far 
as  the  exigencies  of  the  political  situation  were  con- 
cerned, spent  a  part  of  the  later  evening  with  him 
and  the  talk  furnished  the  final  tonic  —  if  any  had 
been  needed  —  to  brace  him  for  the  task  that 
awaited.  That  night,  for  the  first  time  in  many 
months,  he  slept  the  deep,  fortifying  sleep  of  utter 
and  dreamless  unconsciousness. 

With  the  morning  he  felt  no  misgiving  or  shadow 
of  self-doubt.  His  mind  temporarily  was  clear  and 
untroubled,  all  of  the  vexing  problem  was  pushed, 
by  the  singleness  of  his  purpose,  into  the  unknown 
future.  By  his  express  wish,  his  arrival  had  not 
been  published,  and,  except  for  a  few  of  its  leaders 


THE  CHALLENGE  303 

with  whom  Brent  had  conferred,  the  circles  of  the 
convention,  then  in  session  in  the  biggest  auditorium 
the  city  boasted,  were  no  more  aware  than  were  the 
hosts  of  his  friends,  of  his  coming.  He  spent  the 
morning  alone  in  his  room,  sitting  movelessly  hour 
after  hour,  marshalling  his  ideas,  assembling  his 
forces,  stirred  as  he  had  never  before  been  stirred 
by  the  quick  suggestion  of  a  living  issue  and  an  un- 
rivalled opportunity. 

He  lunched  quietly  alone  with  Brent  in  a  private 
room  at  the  club,  and  immediately  afterward  drove 
with  him  to  the  hall.  Throughout  the  morning  the 
platform  had  been  under  discussion ;  the  debate  was 
now  about  finished.  It  was  the  psychological  mo- 
ment for  his  effort. 

As  Harry  stood  silent  before  the  sea  of  faces,  in 
the  instant  that  followed  his  recognition  and  intro- 
duction, he  was  conscious  of  a  tense  and  vital  con- 
centration that  swept  from  him  the  last  vestige  of 
self-consciousness.  With  his  first  measured  words, 
too,  the  outline  which  he  had  pondered  during  the 
morning  vanished  utterly  from  his  brain.  He  re- 
membered nothing  save  the  one  thing  he  had  come 
to  do,  saw  with  his  mind's  eye  only  the  monstrous 
evil  against  which  he  stood. 

Words  came  to  him  in  a  flood  —  words  magically 
compelling,  that  burned  and  quivered  in  their  intense 
appeal.  For  an  hour  he  held  the  interest  of  the 
great  assembly  as  no  orator  had  done,  sketching  with 
hard  and  pitiless  directness  the  ramifications  of  the 


304     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

grim  traffic  that  blasted  whatsoever  it  touched,  that 
knew  no  social  bar,  before  which  the  magnate's  man- 
sion and  the  labourer's  tenement  were  as  one,  against 
which  no  bolt  or  chain  —  save  it  be  one  wrought  by 
the  law  of  a  Sovereign  Commonwealth  —  might 
avail. 

In  his  words  was  no  tang  of  the  study,  none  of 
the  didactic  methods  of  the  arm-chair  student,  no 
array  of  statistics.  What  he  expressed  had  been 
seared  upon  his  soul,  in  inextinguishable  letters  and 
as  he  spoke  shooting  pictures  etched  themselves  as 
if  on  some  quivering  panorama  in  his  brain :  he  saw 
the  black  bottle  in  the  wall-cabinet  of  his  inner  office 
—  the  hidden  sanctuary  where  he  had  signed  away 
his  talent  and  linked  his  years  to  the  demon  of  re- 
morse: he  saw  the  representative  of  the  great  Cor- 
poration, whose  power  flowed  from  that  traffic,  hold- 
ing in  his  merciless  hand  the  happiness  of  a  woman 
that  had  been  dearer  than  his  own  life:  he  saw  the 
cringing  hatred  in  the  eyes  of  Paddy  the  Brick,  the 
furtive  drink-lined  faces  of  the  jail  corridors.  And 
in  his  passionate  denunciation,  he  called  upon  those 
who  heard  him  to  do  their  part  to  rid  the  state  of 
its  Master  and  to  set  it  free.  Lastly,  in  a  peroration 
which  carried  all  before  it,  he  pictured  a  community 
from  which  the  unendurable  stain  had  been  forever 
wiped  away,  the  pitfalls  of  its  youth  filled  up,  the 
shame  of  its  prisons  lightened  —  a  community  ruled 
no  longer  by  King  Alcohol,  but  by  the  Genius  of 
the  Home,  to  which  freedom  no  longer  stood  for 


THE  CHALLENGE  305 

ribald  license  and  self-harm,  but  for  the  Common 
Good. 

He  stopped  amid  a  dense  silence  —  the  truest 
tribute  to  real  oratory  —  then  with  a  great  burst, 
the  storm  of  approval  came. 

It  filled  the  hall  with  electric  feeling,  surging  in 
waves  that  overtopped  all  decorum  and  made  the 
hour  significant  and  momentous.  Near  him  Harry 
saw  the  party  leaders,  among  them  Judge  Allen, 
newly-elected  President  of  the  Civic  Club;  they 
showed  a  singular  self-assurance  overlaid  by  vivid 
excitement.  In  the  galleries  were  banks  of  feminine 
faces,  tier  on  tier,  merged  in  a  tumultuous  hand-clap- 
ping like  silver  rain.  Below,  the  house  was  on  its 
feet,  a  sea  of  waving  flags  and  handkerchiefs. 

The  tumult  swelled,  then  died  away  to  pulsing 
band-music  and  in  the  subsidence,  Brent  leaned  over 
Harry's  shoulder  to  give  him  the  quick  pressure  of  a 
hand  —  words  could  not  have  said  so  much. 

It  was  not  until  the  convention  had  adjourned  for 
an  hour's  recess  that  Harry  could  escape  from  the 
congratulations  that  poured  upon  him  where  he  sat. 
While  he  spoke,  the  sense  of  mastery  and  domina- 
tion had  possessed  him;  now  he  was  feeling  the  in- 
evitable revulsion,  and  with  it  came  the  fading  of 
his  confidence  and  the  relifting  of  the  old  sickening 
question. 

It  had  surged  back  before  the  applause  had  died 
away,  the  moment  he  had  released  his  mind  from 


306     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

the  clamping  resolution  of  his  purpose,  springing 
upon  him  like  a  cunning  enemy  who  had  dogged  him 
in  the  shadow.  His  roseate  speculations  of  the 
Bungalow  seemed  now  but  hollow  wraiths  that  had 
mocked  him  with  an  unrealisable  promise.  Could 
he  ever  for  a  moment  have  cheated  himself  into  for- 
getfulness  of  the  impasse  that  lay  there  ? 

With  Brent  beside  him,  he  pushed  his  way  to  the 
foyer.  There  the  press  was  thickened  and  they  were 
blocked  in  a  corner  by  the  stream  of  people  pouring 
from  the  galleries,  from  which  position  Harry  found 
himself  nodding  across  to  enthusiastic  greetings  of 
old  acquaintances. 

"  Good  heavens ! "  fumed  Brent,  impatiently. 
"We'll  never  get  out  at  this  rate.  Let's  try  the 
other  door."  Harry  turned  with  him,  seeking  a 
way  through  the  diminishing  crowd.  Then,  abruptly 
he  stopped.  Near  at  hand,  her  side-face  turned  to- 
ward him,  was  Echo.  Her  delicate  colour  was 
heightened  by  an  unwonted  flush  and  her  eyes  shone 
softly  under  the  curling  golden  waves  of  her  hair. 

Gazing  in  a  confusion  that  was  almost  panic, 
Harry  felt,  with  a  burning  sense  of  helplessness  and 
cowardice,  the  impossibility  of  his  position.  The 
sight  of  her  was  like  a  cooling  stream  to  a  famished 
wanderer  in  the  desert.  It  called  to  him  with  a 
thousand  voices,  lifting  before  him  every  sweet  re- 
minder of  vanished  things.  She  had  not  yet  seen 
him,  and  as  the  crowd  swept  her  slowly  closer,  he 
felt  to  the  full  his  own  blindness  and  egregious  self- 


THE  CHALLENGE  307 

assurance  that  had  made  this  plunge  into  the  old 
current  seem  possible.  He  watched  her  with  a  fas- 
cinated intensity.  She  was  speaking  to  some  one 
beside  her,  her  glance  wandering.  It  shifted,  then 
was  raised,  as  if  by  very  attraction,  to  his  face. 

He  saw  recognition  spring  across  it  like  a  shaft 
of  sunlight,  as  with  a  quick  impulse  she  started  for- 
ward —  then  her  arm  caught  itself,  as  it  were,  half 
extended.  He  felt  himself  chill  in  every  nerve,  the 
air  was  breathless.  Mechanically  his  hand  touched 
hers. 

"  You  have  been  gone  a  year,"  she  said,  in  a  low, 
uneven  voice. 

Harry's  very  thought  seemed  suspended.  "  Is  it 
—  so  long?  "  he  answered. 

He  scarcely  knew  what  he  said:  the  reply  was  a 
mere  involuntary  expression  of  habit,  a  conventional 
phrase  to  fill  the  moment's  need.  He  could  not 
know  that  the  very  repression  with  which  he  was 
holding  himself  against  the  quick  thrill  of  her  touch 
made  the  words  lifeless  and  inconsequential. 

To  Echo,  however,  in  the  tremulous  gladness  that 
had  filled  her  at  the  knowledge  of  his  return,  and  the 
exaltation  of  the  hour,  the  reply,  deserved  as  at 
heart  she  felt  it  to  be,  was  like  a  blow  in  the  face. 
A  startled  paleness  swept  up  her  cheeks  like  a  wave, 
blotting  their  hue  and  misting  the  clear  April  of  her 
eyes.  She  turned  half-away,  toward  her  com- 
panion, and  the  next  moment  the  eddying  crowd  had 
come  between. 


3o8      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

On  the  hurrying  pavement  Brent  dropped  his  hand 
on  Sevier's  shoulder.  "  I'm  not  going  to  congratu- 
late you,"  he  said.  "  I'm  going  to  congratulate  the 
new  party.  I'm  off  to  the  sanctum  to  write  my  edi- 
torial while  it's  red  hot.  You'll  come  back  for  the 
other  session,  I  suppose.  They're  liable  to  nominate 
to-night." 

"  No,"  replied  Harry.  "  I  must  get  away  from 
the  crowd  somewhere." 

Brent  caught  the  lassitude  of  his  tone.  "  Better 
walk  yourself  tired,"  he  counselled,  "  and  then  turn 
in.  You'll  be  all  right  to-morrow." 

They  clasped  hands  and  parted. 

For  a  time  Sevier  walked  aimlessly,  choosing  the 
less  frequented  thoroughfares,  alone  at  last  to  think. 
He  had  done  his  best.  Whether  or  not  it  would 
accomplish  what  Brent  had  hoped,  he  had  made  the 
strongest  effort  of  which  he  was  capable.  The  meet- 
ing with  Echo  had  shaken  him  by  its  very  unexpected- 
ness, and  had  shown  him  how  bitterly  hard  was  to 
be  his  struggle  with  himself.  In  that  instant  of  their 
encounter  he  had  realised  his  own  weakness. 

Through  the  long,  fading  afternoon  he  walked 
on  and  on,  past  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  on  into  the 
peaceful  willow-green  quiet  of  the  country,  where 
paved  streets  gave  place  to  meandering  red  roads 
and  the  air  was  sweet  with  the  delicate  fragrance  of 
blossoming  fruit-trees.  He  sat  an  hour  on  the  vio- 
let-blurred grass  above  the  silver-looping  river  where 
he  had  often  fished  as  a  boy.  All  his  life  he  had 


THE  CHALLENGE  309 

loved  that  gold-tinted,  dream-shadowed  valley.  But 
now  the  soft  wild  clamour  of  birds,  the  multifold 
perfume  of  the  fields,  the  errant  plum-petals  swim- 
ming in  the  breeze,  the  long-armed  trees  reaching  out 
over  the  darkling  water,  called  to  him  in  vain.  He 
scarcely  saw  the  far,  blue,  hill-brushed  horizon  unfurl 
its  pageant  cloud-clusters  to  hide  the  sun,  where  it 
hastened,  in  purple  toga,  to  greet  the  soft-eyed  night. 

What  Spartan  career  had  he  been  planning  for 
himself?  He  loved  her,  desired  her,  still.  He  real- 
ised it  with  a  stab  of  self-contempt.  And  loving 
her,  could  he  see  her  day  by  day,  meet  her,  talk  with 
her  —  cold  and  empty  words  meaning  less  than  noth- 
ing —  with  his  heart  crying  to  hers :  "  Thus  far 
but  no  further  I  Because  I  loved  you  once  I  wear 
a  shameful  brand  on  my  forehead,  but  my  arms  may 
never  enfold  you,  your  lips  never  lie  on  my  lips,  your 
heart  beat  against  mine!  —  Never,  never,  never  1  " 
—  could  flesh  and  blood  be  capable  of  this  ?  Better 
to  go,  while  there  was  yet  time,  somewhere,  any- 
where, so  it  be  out  of  her  world.  Under  the  deep 
evening  sky,  a  gulf  of  gold,  he  turned  city-ward 
again,  still  painfully  absorbed  with  his  thoughts  — 
a  dark  tangle  of  anguish  and  doubt  and  longing. 

As  he  neared  his  house  speeding  urchins  were 
crying  newspaper  extras,  and  more  than  once  he 
heard  his  name  in  the  shouted,  dislocated  phrases. 
His  speech!  The  swan's-song  of  Harry  Sevier! 

He  let  himself  into  his  apartment  with  his  latch- 
key and  wearily  switched  on  the  lights.  He  sud- 


3io     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

denly  remembered  that  he  had  eaten  nothing  since 
noon  and  realised  that  he  was  wretchedly  tired  and 
spent.  A  pencilled  note,  with  the  superscription  in 
Brent's  jerky  hand,  lay  on  the  table.  He  took  it 
up  and  opened  it. 

Then  suddenly  he  gave  an  inarticulate  cry  of 
amaze  —  of  actual  fright.  He  was  staring  at  this 
message,  written  an  hour  before : 

Anti-liquor  plank  adopted.  You  were 
nominated  for  Governor  on  the  first 
ballot  at  eight  o'clock. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THE   JAILBIRD 

TO  every  man  come  portentous  moments  of 
decision  so  packed  with  fate  that  all  that 
his  after  life  may  hold  of  pain  or  joy,  seen 
with  the  clearer  view  of  later  knowledge,  may  well 
have  hung  upon  the  issue.  Harry's  one  greatest 
moment  of  crisis  had  been  when  he  stood  in  the 
doorway  of  Cameron  Craig's  house,  with  that  mid- 
night alarm  pulsing  about  him  —  when  he  had 
chosen  the  course  that  meant  safety  for  Echo  at 
such  bitter  cbst  to  himself.  The  moment  when  he 
confronted  the  blunt  fact  of  his  nomination  was 
wellnigh  as  significant. 

Such  a  possibility  had  never  occurred  to  him.  He 
saw  himself  now,  first  with  bewilderment,  then  with 
passionate  resentment,  in  a  predicament  as  unpre- 
cedented as  it  was  unescapable.  He  had  not  even 
had  the  option  of  declining  the  nomination.  By  now 
his  name,  as  the  new  party's  choice,  was  darting 
over  the  clicking  wires  to  the  remotest  borders  of 
the  country.  How  could  he  accept  it?  He,  who 
might  at  any  hour,  for  all  he  knew,  be  faced  with  a 
charge  from  which  (if,  indeed,  flight  still  lay  open) 
he  must  flee  ignominiously,  like  a  thief  in  the  night  — 
which,  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  he  was!  Yet  how 

3" 


312      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

evade  the  thing  thus  thrust  upon  him?  After  his 
speech,  in  which  he  had  championed  the  new  cause 
so  ardently,  could  he  throw  ridicule  upon  the  organi- 
sation, make  its  leaders  —  men  whom  he  had  known 
and  respected  all  his  life  —  laughing-stocks,  throw 
doubt  upon  his  own  intentions,  and  make  his  action 
of  to-day  show  forth  before  all  as  a  flamboyant  bid 
for  popular  applause,  the  gallery-appeal  of  a  pitiful 
flaneur  and  attitudinarian,  who  had  no  mind  to  link 
himself  with  an  inevitable  defeat  at  the  polls? 

As  Harry  stood  in  the  pleasant,  lighted  room,  with 
Brent's  pencilled  note  in  his  hand,  a  strange  thought 
obtruded  itself  to  grow  slowly  over  his  confused 
imaginings.  Behind  it  all  was  there  not  the  same 
wise  Intention  whose  outlines  he  had  thought  he  dis- 
tinguished in  his  bitter  prison  experience  ?  And  was 
he,  in  faithless  presumption,  to  deny  that  over-rule, 
and  vanish  cavalierly  into  some  sluggish  back-current 
of  life?  The  same  fate  that  had  turned  Paddy  the 
Brick's  pellet  of  lead  the  single  hair's-breadth  that 
had  saved  him,  perhaps,  from  the  scaffold,  had 
rendered  his  enemy,  at  least  for  the  present,  incapa- 
ble of  harming  him.  And  this  part  of  his  problem 
belonged  to  the  present.  Why  had  the  cards  so 
fallen,  unless  in  that  intricate  Plan,  it  was  meant  that 
he  should  now  give  his  hand  to  this  work?  He 
had  trusted  fate  far  —  might  he  not  trust  it  further? 
Though  the  party  that  had  called  him  to  carry  its 
standard  into  the  fight  was  destined  to  failure,  it 
was  working  for  the  future,  and  some  other  cam- 


THE  JAILBIRD  313 

paign  —  long  after  the  worst  that  could  befall  had 
come  to  him  —  would  bring  its  principles  success. 
He  would  have  done  his  part! 

So,  for  good  or  ill  to  himself,  Harry  made  his 
momentous  decision,  and  as  if  it  had  been  a  signal, 
at  the  same  instant  there  came  the  quick,  insistent 
ringing  of  the  telephone  on  his  desk. 

The  next  few  days  were  days  of  ungrudging  la- 
bour on  Harry's  part  of  conferences  with  the  state 
leaders  —  for  Brent's  prophecy  had  been  fulfilled 
and  Good-Government  Clubs  throughout  the  state 
had  placed  their  local  machinery  in  the  new  parry's 
control.  These  earlier  meetings  were,  for  the  most 
part,  in  Harry's  own  apartment,  or  in  the  library  of 
Midfields,  since  Judge  Allen  was  chairman  of  the 
Committee  on  Organisation.  On  none  of  these  lat- 
ter occasions  had  he  seen  Echo,  nor,  to  his  relief, 
had  he  met  her  elsewhere.  He  gave  himself  no 
relaxation,  bending  all  the  energies  of  his  reawak- 
ened being  to  the  task  of  detail,  and  the  mapping 
out  of  the  campaign  which  he  was  entering.  What- 
ever his  apprehension  and  trepidation,  he  had 
learned  his  real  weight  in  the  hour  of  his  great  speech 
and  the  sense  of  power,  linked  with  extraordinary 
and  tangible  opportunity,  thrilled  and  dominated 
him. 

There  came  an  evening,  however,  after  a  day  of 
more  than  usual  concentration,  when  he  felt  that  he 
must  relax.  He  had  dined  at  the  hotel  with  some 


3H     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

of  the  party's  out-of-town  lieutenants,  but  excused 
himself  early  and  chose  to  dismiss  his  motor  and  to 
walk  home  afoot,  craving  the  lightness  and  gaiety  of 
the  jostling  streets  and  gleaming  windows. 

Presently  he  found  himself  passing  a  theatre-front 
and  remembered  that  Brent  had  pressed  him  to  make 
one  of  a  box-party  there  that  same  evening.  At  the 
time  he  had  left  the  matter  open,  pleading  the  dinner 
engagement,  but  now  it  occurred  to  him  suddenly 
that  an  hour  of  lights  and  music  would  be  welcome. 
It  was  the  intermission  after  the  first  act  and  men 
were  flocking  into  the  doors,  chatting  and  laughing. 
The  spirit  of  frivolity  attracted  him  and  he  entered 
with  the  rest. 

The  orchestra  was  playing  —  a  Bohemian  medley 
of  uneven  harmonies  and  wildly  plaintive  alterna- 
tions, strung,  as  on  a  thread,  on  the  airily-fantastic 
motif  of  Dvorak's  Humoresque,  and  the  pirouetting 
music  seemed  to  belong  to  the  flippant  and  shallow 
yet  alluring  interior,  with  its  plenteous  gold-leaf  and 
dark  blue  draperies  embroidered  in  peacock-feathers 
—  the  breath  of  a  life  of  laughter,  of  careless  amuse- 
ment, of  joy  in  the  present.  Harry  felt  his  spirits 
lift  and  lighten  at  the  grateful  slackening  of  tension 
which  the  mise  en  scene  created,  and  he  bowed  and 
smiled  easily  when  the  audience  testified  its  recogni- 
tion, as  he  followed  the  attendant  along  the  side 
wall,  by  a  hushed  hand-clapping  which  ran  across  the 
rows  of  seats. 

With  his  hand  parting  the  rear  curtains  of  the 


THE  JAILBIRD  315 

box,  however,  he  halted  irresolutely  —  its  occupants 
were  Mrs.  Spottiswoode,  Brent,  Lawrence  Treadwell 
and  Echo.  For  an  instant  resentment  stirred  in 
him;  he  guessed  that  Brent,  albeit  with  the  best  in- 
tentions in  the  world,  had  planned  this  meeting. 
Then  he  squared  his  shoulders  and  entered.  In 
another  moment  he  had  greeted  Mrs.  Spottiswoode 
and  was  bowing  over  Echo's  hand. 

The  men  had  risen.  "  Here  is  the  Candidate !  " 
exclaimed  Brent,  laughing.  "  Mrs.  Spottiswoode 
was  just  about  to  make  me  a  wager  that  you  wouldn't 
descend  to  such  triviality." 

Pretty  Mrs.  Spottiswoode  smiled  as  she  closed  her 
fan.  "  If  I  had,  I  shouldn't  begrudge  the  loss,"  she 
said.  "  You've  missed  the  first  act,  Mr.  Sevier,  but 
then  openings  are  always  dull,  aren't  they? " 
Treadwell  shook  hands  with  him  with  frank  friend- 
liness. Politically  he  belonged  to  the  party  in 
power,  but  his  liking  for  Harry  was  sincere  and  of 
long-standing. 

The  lights  in  the  house  were  fading  and  the  or- 
chestra had  swung  into  a  soft  and  measured  air. 
The  rustle  and  chatter  among  the  seats  stilled:  the 
curtain  was  rising.  After  the  few  words  of  greeting, 
Harry  dropped  into  the  vacant  chair  behind  Echo's, 
in  the  rear  of  the  enclosure.  He  had  a  feeling  that 
again  a  satiric  chance  had  snatched  the  reins  of  con- 
duct from  his  hands.  His  unseeing  gaze  was  set 
upon  the  crowded  tiers  beneath,  but  he  was  conscious 
of  nothing  but  that  small,  delicately-shaped  head 


3i6     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

like  one  in  a  Greek  frieze,  that  clear-cut  profile  softly 
tinged  by  the  dim  rose-lamps  of  the  box,  the  clasped, 
unringed  hands,  the  lacy  sweep  of  the  pale  evening- 
dress  silhouetted  against  the  curtain.  Beyond  the 
range  of  his  vision  manikins  came  and  went  upon 
the  stage,  speaking  meaningless  words.  At  the 
other  side  of  the  box  Mrs.  Spottiswoode  was  whis- 
pering some  humorous  adventure  to  Treadwell  and 
Brent,  whose  heads  were  bent  toward  her.  Every- 
thing else  seemed  unreal  and  far-away,  and  he  and 
Echo  the  only  realities  in  a  chapter  of  banality. 

He  became  conscious  all  at  once  that  her  head  was 
turned  toward  him,  and  as  though  by  magnetic  com- 
pulsion his  own  eyes  looked  into  hers. 

"  I  want  to  say  something  to  you."  The  words 
were  the  merest  whisper  on  her  parted  lips,  yet  he 
heard.  He  drew  his  chair  nearer  till  his  bent  head 
was  at  her  shoulder.  "  Yes,"  he  said. 

Her  lips  trembled,  but  she  spoke  in  a  clear  under- 
tone, audible  only  to  him,  which  faltered  the  merest 
trifle : 

"  I  don't  know  whether  —  now  —  it  makes  any 
difference  to  you,"  she  said.  "  But  I  —  I  was  not 
myself  when  I  —  wrote  you  that  note,  the  day  you  — 
went  away.  There  was  a  reason  why  I  —  acted  as 
I  did.  You—" 

The  low  voice  failed.  There  had  been  in  the 
hesitant  words  failing  pride  and  shame,  mingled  with 
the  love  that  had  been  so  long  denied  —  a  revelation 
which  welled  from  the  pure,  outspoken  honesty  of 


THE  JAILBIRD  317 

heart  that  compelled  it,  demanding,  at  all  odds,  so 
far  as  he  was  concerned,  openness  and  understanding. 
The  shaken  voice,  the  tremulous  lips,  the  moon- 
soft  fire  of  her  eyes  and  the  faint  scent  of  her  cloth- 
ing, all  the  sweet  suggestions  of  her  presence  were 
crying  aloud  to  Harry,  tempting  him  with  a  vision 
of  promise.  What  if  she  had  failed  him  —  then? 
What  if  that  courage  he  had  dreamed,  put  to  the 
touch,  had  shown  but  cowardice,  that  love  of  him 
a  secondary  thing  to  her?  She  was  what  he  wanted 

—  to  yield  himself  to  her  arms  as  a  swimmer  to  the 
sea !     As  much  as  she  loved  any  one  —  save  herself 

—  she  loved  him !     Was  not  a  half  loaf  better  than 
no  bread?     The  icy  barrier  of  reserve  which  he  had 
reared  crumbled  down,  and  he  felt  the  thing  he  had 
tried  to  imprison  leap  up,  savage  and  not  to  be 
denied.     His  groping  hand  went  out  and  touched  her 
arm. 

"  Echo  I  "  he  whispered  hoarsely.     "  Echo  — " 
His  voice  died  in  his  throat.     Her  hands  in  her 
lap  held  the  theatrical  programme,  and  words  in 
heavy  black-letter  —  the  title  of  the  piece  —  were 
staring  up  at  him  from  the  white  paper  — 

THE  JAILBIRD 

In  the  shadow,  he  felt  his  limbs  suddenly  trembling. 
With  a  kind  of  fascination  his  gaze,  for  the  first 
time  since  his  entrance,  lifted  to  the  stage. 

It  was  set  as  a  long  flagged  corridor  of  vertical 
steel  bars,  into  which  doors  were  let  at  regular  inter- 


3i8      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

vals,  and  behind  each  door  showed  a  bare,  forbid- 
ding room,  furnished  with  two  iron  cots,  one  above 
the  other,  and  two  wooden  stools.  As  he  gazed  in 
consternation,  a  bell  clangored  and  along  the  cor- 
ridor came  tramping  a  line  of  men  clad  in  dingy 
stripes,  pallid  face  close  to  shabby  shoulder,  one 
knee  rising  and  falling  to  the  damnable  rhythm  of  the 
prison  lock-step. 

Harry  felt  an  algid  chill  creep  over  him.  He  sat 
upright,  his  whole  body  rigid,  each  detail  of  the 
significant  picture  stamping  itself  upon  his  quivering 
perception.  Midway  of  the  line  a  turnkey  unlocked 
a  door  in  the  barred  wall  and  two  links  of  the  hu- 
man chain  detached  themselves  and  entered  —  one 
stooped  and  crafty  and  cringing;  the  other  clean-cut 
and  erect  with  no  stamp  of  vice  upon  his  face.  The 
clanging  bolt  shot  home,  the  line  moved  off.  Then, 
in  the  silence  of  the  house  the  comely  figure  leaned 
against  the  bars,  and  John  Stark' s  voice  —  or  was 
it  his,  Harry  Sevier's?  —  cried  in  broken  agony: 

"  And  I  am  innocent  —  innocent !  " 

As  the  curtain  descended  on  the  act,  amid  a  crash 
of  orchestral  music,  Mrs.  Spottiswoode  turned  to 
Harry  with  a  little  shrug. 

"  It  is  moving,  really,  isn't  it?  But  how  terribly 
unnatural!  Of  course  in  real  life  nothing  like  that 
could  happen  to  an  innocent  man.  What  do  you 
think,  Mr.  Treadwell?" 

But  Treadwell  did  not  answer  at  once.     He  had 


THE  JAILBIRD  319 

turned  in  surprise  to  the  rear  of  the  box,  where 
a  youth  in  a  grey  silver-buttoned  uniform  had  parted 
the  curtains.  The  messenger  was  looking  at  Brent, 
who  rose  and  went  to  him. 

"  I  beg  pardon,  sir,"  the  boy  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"  but  they  told  me  at  the  box-office  you  were  here. 
Will  you  please  come  over  to  the  club  ?  Something 
is  the  matter.  Perhaps  Mr.  Sevier  will  come  too." 

Brent  looked  at  him  —  there  was  agitation  in  the 
youthful  face.  He  turned. 

"  Will  you  ladies  excuse  Sevier  and  me  for  a  few 
minutes?  "  he  said.  "  I  dare  say  we  shall  be  back 
before  the  curtain  goes  up  again." 

At  the  words  Harry  had  risen  also,  with  a  quick 
relief  at  this  summons,  whatever  it  was,  that  offered 
the  instant  escape.  Though  his  bow  took  in  Echo, 
he  did  not  look  at  her,  as  turning,  he  followed  Brent 
quickly  from  the  box. 


CHAPTER  XL 

GENTLEMEN  ALL 

CHISHOLM  ALLEN  had  come  to  the  end 
of  a   long  tether.     He   was   drunk.     Not 
with  the  amiable  jollity  of  the  youthful  tip- 
pler, nor  with  the  heavy,  fatuous  oblivion  of  the 
sot,  but  with  the  drunkenness  that  marks  the  vicious 
rebellion  of  the  nerve-cell  against  the  prolonged  ex- 
citation  of   an   intoxicant  —  the   dreadful   revenge 
wherein  the  outraged  brain  summons  the  distorted 
imagination  to  fill  the  victim's  landscape  with  un- 
couth and  demoniacal  visitants. 

For  a  long  fortnight,  at  the  Springs,  with  a  couple 
of  cronies,  he  had  defied  convention  and  strained  the 
tolerance,  which  had  countenanced  past  escapades 
because  he  was  an  Allen,  to  the  breaking-point. 
Only  when  revelry  had  sunken  to  deep  debauch  had 
friends  been  able  to  bring  him  to  the  city,  where  he 
had  been  bestowed  in  a  room  at  the  club  to  await 
returning  soberness.  That  night,  however,  when 
the  friendly  guard  had  relaxed,  Chilly  had  awakened 
to  horrid  visions.  At  first  he  had  known  them  for 
creations  of  his  drunken  fantasy,  but  they  had  mul- 
tiplied in  numbers  and  horror  till  they  had  broken 
down  the  frail  bulwark  of  remaining  reason  and 
obsessed  him  with  the  sense  of  reality  —  uncanny 
320 


GENTLEMEN  ALL  321 

nightmares  from  some  formless  abysm,  shuddering 
mistakes  of  nature,  mingling  in  a  monstrous  extrava- 
ganza that  crowded  about  to  menace  him. 

With  a  scream  Chilly  burst  from  the  room  and  ran 
along  an  upper  corridor  to  the  brightly-lighted  read- 
ing-room. It  was  deserted  at  that  hour  —  but  not 
for  him,  for  the  visitants  from  which  he  fled  pur- 
sued him  there !  They  ringed  him  about,  clutching 
at  him.  Livid  and  shaking,  he  seized  a  heavy  iron 
poker  from  the  hearth  and  crouching  in  a  corner, 
beat  off  the  imaginary  assailants. 

It  was  upon  this  spectacle  that  the  agitated  stew- 
ard had  come,  called  by  a  frightened  bell-boy,  and 
as  the  theatre  stood  opposite,  he  had  hastily  sent 
thither,  as  the  likeliest  spot  in  which  to  find  some 
habitue  of  the  Club  who  might  assume  charge  of 
the  situation. 

Two  other  club-members  stood  nonplussed  and 
disconcerted  on  the  threshold  of  the  room  when 
Harry  Sevier  and  Brent  entered,  with  the  steward 
behind  them.  In  the  livid  face  of  the  boy  at  bay, 
the  staring  distempered  eyes,  the  gripped,  impromptu 
weapon,  Harry  read  the  fact.  He  spoke  to  him 
soothingly,  but  the  frenzied  brain  did  not  recognise 
him.  To  Chilly's  imagination  the  friendly,  familiar 
faces  took  on  the  baleful  character  of  the  gibbering 
things  by  which  he  was  beset.  He  sprang  up,  slash- 
ing frantically  with  the  iron,  panting  indistinguish- 
able words.  Thus  for  a  moment  the  writhing 
images  fell  back  —  only  one  of  the  iron  lizards  that 


322      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

formed  the  andirons  suddenly  came  to  life  and  on 
bat's-wings  soared  to  a  great  marble  bust  that  sat 
on  a  shelf  above  the  fireplace,  where  it  perched  and 
spat  down  at  him. 

Chilly  leaped  up  at  it,  dealing  it  blow  after  blow 
with  the  poker  —  then  laughed  wildly  to  see  it  sud- 
denly waver  and  topple  forward.  So  it  seemed  to 
him,  but  an  exclamation  of  dismayed  warning  broke 
from  Harry's  lips;  it  was  the  heavy  marble  itself, 
its  too  frail  support  shattered  by  the  attack,  which 
was  falling.  He  sprang  forward. 

But  he  reached  the  spot  too  late.  The  great  bust 
came  crashing  from  its  height  full  upon  Chilly's 
breast,  and  with  a  choked  cry  he  went  down  beneath 
it. 

The  others  rushed  to  him  and  between  them  the 
massive  stone  was  lifted  from  the  broken  body. 
"  Call  up  a  doctor,"  Harry  ordered  the  steward. 
"  Get  the  nearest  —  tell  him  to  hurry ;  Mr.  Allen 
is  badly  hurt."  To  the  rest  he  said,  "  Nothing  must 
be  known,  as  to  how  this  happened,  outside  this 
room.  It  was  an  accident,  remember,  nothing  more. 
The  shelf  was  weak  and  the  bust  fell." 

When  the  doctor  came  in,  the  crushed  form  lay 
upon  a  couch  hastily  improvised  from  chair-cushions. 
Blood  was  welling  from  the  pale  lips.  He  made  a 
hasty  examination,  then  looked  up  and  shook  his 
head. 

"  Better  fetch  his  father  and  mother,"  he  said, 
"  and  as  quickly  as  possible." 


GENTLEMEN  ALL  323 

"  I  will  go,"  volunteered  Brent.  "  My  car  is  at 
the  theatre.  I  can  do  it  in  twenty  minutes."  He 
went  out  quickly,  while  the  man  of  medicine  opened 
his  case  and  busied  himself  with  restoratives. 

To  Harry,  who  stood  watching  with  the  others, 
it  seemed  that  these  were  to  be  of  no  avail,  but  after 
a  sensible  interval  Chilly  opened  his  eyes.  He  gazed 
at  the  professional  face  so  near  —  at  the  other 
shocked  countenances  grouped  about.  He  saw  the 
bust  lying  on  its  side. 

u  I'm  —  sober  now,"  he  gasped.  "  I  was  — 
seeing  things,  eh?  But  I  seem  to  be  —  hurt. 
What's  the  matter?" 

"  The  marble  fell  and  struck  you,"  said  Harry. 

A  spasm  of  pain  caught  Chilly  and  he  groaned. 
"  I  remember,"  he  said,  and  then,  after  a  pause, 
"Am  I  — badly  off?" 

"  I'm  afraid  so,"  said  the  doctor. 

The  pity  in  the  tone  conveyed  its  message.  A 
tremor  ran  over  Chilly's  face.  There  was  a  long 
moment's  silence. 

"Have  I  — much  time?" 

"  Not  very  much,"  answered  the  other  gently. 

Chilly  caught  a  breath  that  was  half  a  sob. 
"  Poor  little  Nancy!  "  he  whispered. 

He  looked  up  at  the  men  who  stood  about  him, 
"  I  would  like  —  "  he  said,  hesitatingly  but  clearly, 
"  I  would  be  glad  if  some  —  explanation  might  be 
made  of  this  —  occurrence  —  which  would  not  in- 
volve unnecessary  pain  to  the  Duchess.  Perhaps 


324     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

that  is  —  impossible.  But  I  would  —  be  grate- 
ful—" 

One  of  the  younger  men  leaned  beside  him.  It 
was  Lee  Carter,  his  closest  friend,  who  had  brought 
him  that  afternoon  from  the  Springs.  "  Dear  old 
chap !  "  he  said,  brokenly.  "  I  was  standing  just 
under  it.  You  saw  it  topple  and  jumped  to  save 
me!  That  is  how  it  happened!  Every  one  of  us 
saw  it." 

A  wan  smile  touched  the  whitening  lips,  "  Gentle- 
men all !  "  said  Chilly,  and  closed  his  eyes. 

He  lay  silent  then  —  he  was  breathing  with  in- 
creasing difficulty.  At  length  there  was  the  sound 
of  a  motor  halting  outside,  and  Harry  and  the  rest 
went  out. 

In  the  quiet  of  the  room  the  door  opened  upon 
Judge  and  Mrs.  Allen.  She  was  deadly  pale,  her 
face  frozen  with  anguish.  She  knelt  beside  the 
prostrate  figure  and  took  the  cold  hand  of  her  son 
in  hers. 

"  Chilly!  "  she  cried.     "  My  poor,  poor  boy!  " 

His  eyes  opened.  He  seemed,  in  that  last  fading 
instant,  to  see  only  her.  "  Duchess !  "  he  whispered, 
and  with  the  word  the  light  died  in  his  face. 
"Duchess!" 

Mrs.  Allen  looked  at  the  Judge's  quivering  coun- 
tenance with  dull  blank  eyes,  that  saw  two  great  tears 
suddenly  detach  themselves  and  roll  down  his  pale 
cheeks.  He  took  a  step  toward  her. 


GENTLEMEN  ALL  325 

"  Charlotte  — "  he  stammered     "  Charlotte !  " 

There  was  in  the  shaking  voice  something  that 
pierced  her  agony,  a  tone  that  she  had  not  heard  on 
his  lips  for  many,  many  long  years  —  an  echo  of 
accents  that  she  had  known  when  she  was  a  bride. 
She  gazed  at  him  an  instant  voicelessly. 

Then  all  at  once  her  face  broke  up  and  a  wild 
cry  tore  itself  upward  from  her  heart.  It  was  not 
the  voice  now  of  cold  and  placid  scorn,  but  that  of 
the  real  woman  —  the  eternal  voice  of  Rachel  weep- 
ing for  her  children.  The  sword  of  overwhelming 
tragedy  had  stripped  off  the  protecting  cicatrice  of 
pride  and  arrogant  resentment  and  bared  the  lonely 
soul  beneath,  that  in  this  shuddering  instant  groped 
wildly  for  human  comfort. 

The  Judge  bent  down  and  clasped  her,  and  there, 
above  the  body  of  Chilly,  for  the  first  time  since  the 
son  who  lay  dead  before  them  had  been  born,  she 
lay  in  her  husband's  arms,  her  face  turned  against 
his  breast. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

DARK  DAYS 

IF  I   only  knew!"     That  was   Echo's   mental 
cry  in  the   long  days  that   followed   Chilly's 
burial.     "  If    I    only    knew    whether    Harry 
cared  for  me  any  longer!  "     Sharp  as  was  her  grief 
for  her  brother,  this  pang  was  the  sharper,  and  it 
did  not  dull  with  time. 

After  the  meeting  in  the  corridor  of  the  Conven- 
tion Hall,  when  the  barrier  had  risen,  so  icily  cold, 
between  them,  she  had  been  unable  to  blame  him. 
The  very  depth  of  his  hurt  and  resentment  only 
showed  her  how  much  he  had  once  cared,  and  she 
had  longed  fiercely  for  an  opportunity  of  speech 
with  him,  which,  it  seemed  to  her,  must  set  all 
right.  This  opportunity  she  had  discerned  in 
Brent's  invitation  to  the  theatre,  since  he  had 
let  fall  that  he  had  asked  Harry  also.  She  had 
known  the  character  of  the  play  to  be  presented 
and  otherwise  would  have  shrunk  from  the  painful 
memories  it  must  evoke,  even  though  her  per- 
sonal dread  had  been  exercised  by  the  escape 
from  prison  of  the  convict  from  whose  plight  had 
come  her  own  pain  of  conscience.  But  the  pos- 
sibility of  Harry's  presence  had  outweighed  other 
considerations.  In  that  moment  in  the  box,  when 
326 


DARK  DAYS  327 

his  lips  had  spoken  her  name,  when  she  had 
felt  his  hand  tremble  against  her  arm,  the  ice  had 
seemed  about  to  melt  in  understanding.  For  an  in- 
stant her  heart  had  leaped  up  with  glad  certainty, 
only  to  drop  to  anguished  slowness  again  at  his  sud- 
den stricken  silence. 

"  If  I  only  knew!  "  Through  the  months  of  the 
early  summer  the  question  sat  incarnate  by  Echo's 
side.  By  night  and  by  day  it  never  left  her.  She 
had  no  confidant,  could  have  none.  From  this  trou- 
ble her  father  himself  was  barred.  It  was  some 
relief  that  she  had  no  longer  to  wear  a  smiling 
motley,  but  could  give  her  grief  free  rein,  and  there 
were  times  when  she  wept  till  the  very  fount  of  her 
tears  seemed  to  be  exhausted  —  when  it  seemed  to 
her  that  all  her  life  was  darkened  and  her  love  lay 
stark  with  its  death-tapers  licking  the  gloom. 

As  time  wore  on,  and  her  father  threw  himself 
again  into  the  work  of  the  political  campaign,  she 
was  mentally  more  alone  than  ever.  There  were 
few  of  those  old  hours  when  she  had  been  used  to 
sit  with  him  in  the  dusky  library;  for  this  room  had 
become,  gradually,  the  habitual  meeting-place  of  the 
leaders,  the  clearing-house  of  county  news,  the  forum 
in  which  were  discussed  and  decided  the  varying  pol- 
icies of  the  struggle.  Occasionally  Harry  took  part 
in  these  gatherings  —  not  often,  for  he  was  now 
away  during  long  periods,  speaking  in  various  parts 
of  the  state.  By  the  newspapers  Echo  followed  his 
every  step.  He  made  no  speech  that  she  did  not 


328      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

read  with  eagerness  and  pride.  She  knew  that  he 
was  making  a  whirlwind  campaign  that  had  steadily 
increased  in  vigour  and  effect  as  the  day  of  election 
drew  nearer,  and  that,  however  the  issues  might  fall, 
he  was  stamping  his  individuality  deeply  upon  a 
wide  community.  She  thrilled  with  the  thought  of 
his  success,  and  in  the  unselfishness  of  her  love,  this 
was  some  recompense. 

She  found  a  kind  of  comfort,  too,  in  the  realisa- 
tion that  the  relations  of  her  father  and  mother  had 
subtly  altered.  In  her  whole  life  she  had  never  wit- 
nessed the  smallest  discourtesy  of  word  or  deed  be- 
tween them,  yet  there  was  now  a  positive  element  in 
their  intercourse  which  she  had  never  distinguished. 
Often  now  they  sat  together  as  the  Judge  wrote  or 
scanned  his  reports,  sometimes  he  discussed  with  his 
wife  the  phases  of  the  political  situation  and  once  — 
with  what  Echo  realised  afterward  was  almost  a 
guilty  start  —  she  had  come  upon  them  sitting  in 
the  lamplight  hand  in  hand.  She  had  turned  away 
to  discover  that  her  eyes  had  unaccountably  filled 
with  tears. 

Most  of  all  that  sustained  her  spirits  in  this  period 
were  her  talks  with  Brent.  Trained  newspaperman 
and  observer  as  he  was,  he  had  thrown  himself  into 
the  battle  with  all  ardour.  Day  after  day,  in  trench- 
ant editorials,  he  preached  the  Gospel  of  the  new 
party,  and  many  times  he  swung  his  long  legs  down 
the  Avenue  for  a  cup  of  tea  at  Midfields.  His  ad- 
miration for  the  fight  Harry  was  making  was  im- 


DARK  DAYS  329 

mense  and  he  found  in  Echo  a  perfect  listener,  sym- 
pathetic and  comprehending. 

And  so  the  months  passed  till  there  remained  but 
a  fortnight  before  election  day,  and  so  deeply  had 
Echo's  imagination  entered  into  the  great  issue,  so 
intimately  were  all  her  thoughts  engaged  with 
Harry's  tangible  success,  that  even  the  dread  of 
Craig's  recovery,  even  the  pain  and  puzzle  of  her 
heart,  were  thrust  into  the  background. 

That  evening  she  sat  at  the  piano  in  the  drawing- 
room,  her  fingers  wandering  in  long  dreamy  arpeg- 
gios, when  her  maid  brought  her  a  letter.  It  was 
from  Nancy  Eveland.  She  opened  and  read  it 
through,  to  the  postscript  on  the  last  page: 

"  The  evening  papers  have  a  telegram  from  Buda- 
Pesth  about  Mr.  Craig.  He  left  the  hospital  there 
yesterday.  The  operation  was  completely  success- 
ful." 

She  sat  for  some  minutes  with  the  paper  held 
tight  in  her  hand,  with  a  weird  feeling  that  it  was 
a  warning,  and  when  she  tried  again  to  play  her 
fingers  stumbled  into  discord. 

It  was  long  before  she  slept  that  night,  and  then 
the  fear  swooped  upon  her  in  her  dreaming.  She 
thought  it  was  her  wedding-day  and  that  she  was 
pacing  up  a  church  aisle,  over  rose-leaves  red  as 
blood  strewn  with  seed-pearls  that  had  been  her 
tears.  Turned  toward  her  were  the  faces  of  her 
father  and  mother,  of  Chilly  and  of  a  myriad  friends, 


330      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

who  filled  every  pew.  At  the  altar  Harry  was 
standing  waiting  for  her.  But  every  countenance 
wore  a  look  of  astonishment  and  trepidation,  and 
she  knew  that  it  was  because  the  gown  she  was 
wearing  was  not  white  but  black,  and  her  bride's 
veil  of  black  crepe.  This,  however,  had  been  neces- 
sary because  she  had  wished  that  Craig  would  die, 
and  the  wish  had  somehow  brought  his  death  about. 
She  thought  she  tried  to  explain  this,  in  a  whisper, 
to  Harry,  but  he  shrank  from  her.  She  turned  to 
the  rector,  who  had  been  ready,  but  as  she  looked 
at  him,  he  took  off  his  surplice  and  dashed  it  on 
the  floor,  and  she  saw  that  he  was  really  Craig 
himself.  Then  the  organ  crashed  and  lights  flared 
up  about  her  and  Harry  vanished  and  all  that  was 
left  was  Craig's  face,  sneering  at  her,  with  a  red 
blotch  on  his  temple. 

She  awoke  in  the  darkness  with  a  start,  trembling 
in  every  limb  —  to  hear  a  lone  hound  howling  from 
the  stable. 


CHAPTER  XLII 

THE   MENDED  ROAD 

DR.  IVANY,  the  great  Hungarian  specialist, 
adept  in  the  delicate  adventurings  of  brain 
surgery,  ceased  his  examination  and  refast- 
ened  the  light  bandage  upon  his  patient's  head  with 
a  look  of  satisfaction. 

"  But  yes,"  he  said,  in  his  concise  French,  "  it 
goes  well.  I  release  you  from  my  care,  Monsieur. 
One  thing,  however,  you  must  remember.  No  ex- 
citation. No  anger.  No  prolonged  mental  labour 
for  some  months  to  come.  Otherwise  —  the  tiniest 
hemorrhage  in  the  affected  area  —  and  all  my  sur- 
gery could  not  undo  the  damage  again." 

The  spruce  young  secretary  who  stood  at  Craig's 
side  translated. 

"  All  right,"  said  Craig.  "  Tell  him  I'm  much 
obliged."  He  shook  hands  with  the  great  man  with- 
out emotion,  and  when  the  door  had  closed  upon 
the  latter  he  got  upon  his  feet.  "  Have  you  ar- 
ranged the  rooms  at  the  hotel?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Then  get  me  out  of  here.  The  sooner  the 
better." 

A  half  hour  later  he  was  in  a  suite  of  the  hotel. 
"  Now  bring  me  the  home  papers,"  he  commanded. 
331 


332     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

"To-day,  sir?"  ventured  the  secretary.  "Do 
you  think  you  are  strong  enough  so  soon  — " 

"  Do  as  I  tell  you,"  was  the  curt  reply.  "  I  was 
shot  on  the  ninth  of  May,  last  year.  I  want  to 
begin  with  the  tenth,  and  I  want  all  of  them  I  " 

The  secretary  went  into  the  adjoining  room,  to 
return  presently  with  a  file  of  newspapers,  stitched 
neatly  together,  their  columns  marked  here  and  there 
in  blue-pencil.  He  laid  the  great  tome  down  on  the 
table. 

"  That's  all  now,"  said  Craig.  "  I'll  call  when  I 
want  you  again.  I'll  dine  here." 

Alone,  he  drew  a  long  breath.  Then  he  set  his 
teeth  and  a  peculiar  expression  came  to  his  face. 
A  year,  and  more,  had  been  snatched  from  his  life 
—  this  had  been  told  him  when  it  had  been  evident 
that  the  operation  had  restored  his  faculties  unim- 
paired, and  as  soon  as  he  had  recovered  sufficient 
strength.  Beyond  this,  however,  he  had  been  told 
nothing :  on  this  score  the  surgical  authority  had  been 
adamant.  So,  for  weeks,  denied  even  the  presence 
of  his  secretary,  he  had  been  constrained,  albeit  im- 
patiently, to  subsist  on  the  merest  assurances  cabled 
him  from  day  to  day  that  the  interests  which  had 
been  in  his  charge  were  adequately  cared  for,  and  to 
compel  his  stubborn  resolution  to  patience.  Now 
the  embargo  had  been  lifted ;  he  was  once  more  his 
own  master.  And  before  him,  in  black  and  white, 
lay  the  record  of  that  vanished  time,  which  to  him 


THE  MENDED  ROAD  333 

was  but  a  meaningless  void  thronged  with  vague  and 
inchoate  images,  the  story  of  the  ignominy  and  down- 
fall of  the  man  who  had  tricked  him  and  robbed 
him  of  the  woman  he  desired!  The  blood  rose  in 
his  temples.  His  lips  drew  up  from  his  clenched 
teeth  and  his  fingers  twitched  as  he  reached  for  the 
newspapers. 

There  it  was,  the  episode  that  excluded  all  else 
from  his  thought,  the  sensational  headlines  running 
half  across  the  front  page  —  the  story,  pieced  to- 
gether by  the  assiduous  reportorial  pencil,  of  the 
burglars  and  the  shooting,  the  unknown  feminine 
visitor  who  had  disappeared  in  the  confusion  leaving 
no  clue  behind  her,  the  arrest  of  the  single  desperado, 
closing  with  the  latter's  confrontation  with  Craig 
himself.  An  exclamation  of  satisfaction  fell  from 
his  lips.  He  had  said  to  Echo  that  there  lived  no 
man  who  could  say  that  he  had  lied  —  a  boast  that 
had  had  a  shameful  aftermath.  Yet  he  felt  now 
no  shade  of  remorse  for  the  black  perjury  that  had 
fastened  the  attempted  murder  upon  Harry  Sevier. 
Rather  he  felt  disappointed  that  consciousness  had 
failed  him  a  moment  too  soon,  so  that  his  own  lips 
had  not  placarded  the  other  to  his  face.  That  joy 
had  been  denied  him. 

He  turned  the  leaves,  searching  avidly  for  the 
headlines  which  should  have  flung  broadcast  the 
startling  identification.  The  events  of  the  great 
world,  the  larger  happenings  that  had  plunged  two 


334     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

Balkan  States  into  war  and  overturned  a  British 
Ministry,  the  loss  of  a  great  ocean  liner  —  even  a 
senatorial  inquiry  into  the  methods  of  the  Distillery 
Trust  —  held  no  interest  for  him  at  this  moment. 
His  brain  had  linked  onto  the  past  where  it  had 
dropped  it,  and  the  empty  gulf  had  laid  no  cooling 
fingers  on  his  burning  craving  for  revenge. 

But  the  thing  he  sought  was  not  there.  "  Prisoner 
Refuses  to  Make  Any  Statement " — "  Criminal  Un- 
known to  Police  " — "  Sticks  Stubbornly  to  Policy  of 
Silence  " —  as  he  read,  a  dull  flush  overspread  his 
face.  Fools!  Was  it  possible  that  he  —  Harry 
Sevier  —  known  to  a  thousand  folk  of  a  city  a  couple 
of  hundreds  of  miles  away,  could  hoodwink  the  po- 
lice by  the  silly  subterfuge  of  a  newly-shaven  chin? 
The  papers  shook  in  his  vengeful  clutch  as  he  turned 
and  turned,  conning  the  progress  of  the  trial.  It 
ended  with  the  conviction  and  the  sentence;  there- 
after the  headlines  told  of  things  of  fresher  public 
interest. 

For  a  long  time  Craig  sat  perfectly  still,  staring 
into  the  grate  whose  fire-light  danced  in  yellow 
shadows  on  the  wall,  with  the  page  open  on  his 
knees.  He  had  won  the  first  trick,  and  Harry  Sevier 
had  played  his  lone  trump  of  silence.  But  what  of 
that?  He  was  a  jail-bird,  chained  to  a  cell  for 
twenty  years.  His  absence  from  home  would  long 
ago  have  raised  a  question,  which  in  the  end  must 
become  insistent.  He,  Cameron  Craig,  could  an- 
swer that  question!  His  lips  curved  in  a  cruel 


THE  MENDED  ROAD  335 

smile.  And  Echo?  She  had  profited  by  the  situa- 
tion —  Harry  had  borne  the  brunt. 

Her  lover!  A  sinistrous  rage  caught  him  as  he 
repeated  the  word  to  himself.  No  softer  thought 
of  her  now  lurked  in  the  bitter  chambers  of  his  mind. 
She  had  mocked  and  fooled  him  and  he  hated  her 
with  the  still,  cold  hatred  which  the  strong  and  evil 
man  feels  for  the  weaker  thing  that  defies  him.  Yet 
so  far  as  she  was  concerned  he  was  helpless.  He 
could  not  deny  his  declaration  that  he  had  not  known 
the  woman  in  the  library.  Life  was  long  and  he 
knew  the  penalty  that  in  the  south  awaited  the  man 
who  wantonly  attacked  the  character  of  a  woman. 
All  facts  aside,  his  sober  judgment  told  him  that  the 
act  would  bar  against  him  every  social  door  that  now 
stood  open. 

But  Harry  Sevier  was  another  thing.  Harry 
Sevier,  thief  and  house-breaker?  Harry  Sevier,  a 
midnight  assassin?  Harry  Sevier,  the  nameless  con- 
vict in  the  State's  Penitentiary?  What  a  story! 
Fate  held  its  compensations,  after  all.  Now  he 
would  be  able  to  figure,  first  hand,  in  the  sensation 
that  he  should  send  sweeping  over  the  south  like  a 
lurid  flame ! 

He  rose  and  set  the  newspapers  on  the  table, 
parting  the  leaves  further  along,  now  that  his  main 
craving  had  been  satisfied  catching  glimpses  of  other 
things:  movements  in  the  business  world,  and  the 
new  political  alignment,  the  danger  of  which,  to  the 
interests  with  which  he  was  identified,  he  had  long 


336     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

ago  discerned.  So  the  Civic  Club  following  had 
become  a  full-fledged  party  now  —  was  reaching  out 
toward  a  state-wide  organisation! 

Suddenly  his  gaze  fixed  itself  and  he  bent  over  the 
page  staring  unbelievingly.  A  hoarse  ejaculation 
broke  from  him.  What  he  saw  was  the  line,  in 
inch-high  letters  — 

HENRY  SEVIER  FOR  GOVERNOR! 

He  snatched  up  the  file  again  and  held  it  to  the 
light.  There  was  no  mistake !  Three  months  ago, 
while  he  had  lain  inert  in  the  hospital  above  the 
river,  the  man  he  imagined  the  occupant  of  a  prison- 
cell  had  been  nominated  for  the  highest  office  in  the 
Commonwealth,  the  standard-bearer  of  the  New 
Ideal! 

For  an  instant  a  keen  trepidation  darted  through 
him.  His  hand  went  up  and  touched  the  bandage. 
Could  it  be  that  he  was  —  not  himself?  Was  what 
he  had  imagined  only  the  figment  of  a  brain  astray  ? 
With  a  fierce  effort  at  self-control  he  sat  down  and 
beginning  at  the  date  at  which  he  had  left  off  his 
reading,  began  to  scan  the  columns  carefully  and 
methodically,  missing  nothing. 

For  two  hours  he  did  this,  and  at  length  he  came 
upon  a  paragraph  at  which  his  lowering  face  light- 
ened with  exultation.  It  chronicled  in  a  dozen 
words  the  escape  from  the  Penitentiary  of  the  con- 
vict who  was  under  imprisonment  for  the  burglary 
of  the  Craig  mansion  and  the  shooting  of  its  owner. 


THE  MENDED  ROAD  337 

The  circle  of  evidence  closed  up.  He  was  certain, 
now. 

Craig  laughed  out  loud,  a  grating  laugh  of  sar- 
donic amusement.  Again  the  cards  had  fallen 
Harry  Sevier's  way.  By  some  lucky  chance  he  had 
freed  himself,  and  with  the  effrontery  of  supposed 
security  had  resumed  his  old  place  and  character,  no 
one  the  wiser.  Now  he  was  actually  running  for 
Governor !  Well,  the  higher  the  pinnacle  the  more 
spectacular  the  fall!  The  game  was  his,  Craig's, 
for  he  held  the  highest  trump ! 

He  rang  for  his  secretary. 

"  Bring  me  the  steamer-lists,"  he  said,  "  and  have 
the  servants  pack  my  things.  We  are  going  to  leave 
on  the  Nord-Express  at  midnight." 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

THE    PITFALL 

you  think  it  incredible,  then!" 
Lawrence    Treadwell's    glance    at    Craig 
was  veiled  as  he  replied,  dryly: 

"  I  am  considering  the  evidence  as  you  present  it, 
that's  all.  This,  it  seems  to  me,  is  what  it  amounts 
to:  Mr.  Henry  Sevier,  a  reputable  citizen  and  a 
well  known  resident  of  this  place,  a  year  ago  leaves 
for  a  vacation." 

"  In  disguise,"  interrupted  Craig. 

Treadwell  shook  his  head.  "  There  is  no  evi- 
dence of  that  —  it  is  mere  allegation.  He  was  seen 
here  late  one  afternoon,  as  usual.  There  could  be 
no  mistake,  for  he's  a  characteristic  enough  indi- 
vidual. He  had  arranged  for  the  closing  of  his 
office,  had  told  his  clerk,  in  fact,  that  he  was  going 
abroad.  The  same  night,  at  midnight  in  your  own 
house  —  two  hundred  miles  away  and  in  another 
state  —  a  man  is  arrested,  one  of  a  gang  of  burglars. 
There  were  all  the  usual  earmarks  —  open  safe, 
black  mask,  an  attempt  at  escape,  with  the  shooting 
of  yourself  thrown  in." 

"  I  identified  him  an  hour  later,  as  soon  as  I  re- 
gained consciousness." 

338 


THE  PITFALL  339 

"  As  the  man  who  had  shot  you  —  yes.  Your 
identification  went  no  further  at  that  time.  And 
since  then  you  have  been  able  to  give  no  evidence." 

"  Until  now,"  said  Craig  grimly. 

"  The  burglar,"  pursued  Treadwell,  "  is  tried. 
He  is  unknown  to  the  local  police.  He  refuses  to 
tell  his  name.  Naturally !  He  has  served  time  be- 
fore and  has  no  hankering  for  a  life-sentence  under 
the  '  habitual-criminal '  act.  He  is  sentenced  to 
twenty  years.  After  a  period  of  incarceration,  he 
escapes,  as  jail-birds  will,  and  is  not  apprehended. 
Some  months  afterward,  Mr.  Henry  Sevier  returns 
from  his  vacation  and  resumes  his  popular  career. 
He  is  just  now  in  the  public  eye  —  very  much  so,  in- 
deed. Do  you  seriously  believe  a  claim  that  the 
two  men  are  identical  will  hold  water?  " 

Craig  had  been  staring  at  him  from  under  his 
shaggy  brows.  Anger  was  seething  in  his  brain  at 
the  suspicion  he  felt  was  lurking  behind  the  other's 
matter-of-fact  logic.  "  Then  you  believe  I  am  the 
victim  of  hallucination?"  he  asked,  with  forced 
calmness. 

"  Frankly,"  said  Treadwell,  "  I  think  for  you  to 
allege  such  a  thing  openly  would,  at  the  very  least, 
make  you  seem  ridiculous.  Man,  don't  you  see? 
You've  had  a  shock  —  a  brain  injury.  You've  been 
through  a  long  period  of  mental  illness,  culminating 
in  a  major  operation  I  Don't  you  realise  — " 

Craig  struck  his  fist  upon  the  table  and  his  teeth 
snapped  together.  "Look  here,  Treadwell,"  he 


340     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

flamed,  "  I'm  as  sane  as  you  are,  and  you  know  it  I  " 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  agreed  the  other,  in  a 
mollifying  tone.  "  But  why  not  let  the  matter  rest 
awhile?  Go  down  for  a  month  to  Old  Point  and 
build  up  — " 

Craig's  face  turned  livid.  He  got  up,  and  lifted 
one  clenched  fist  in  the  air. 

"  Think  what  you  like  1  "  he  said,  venomously. 
"  Do  you  suppose  I  care  what  any  one  thinks?  I'll 
show  you  whether  I'm  right  or  not !  "  His  voice 
rose.  "  I'll  drag  him  in  the  mud !  Every  man  and 
woman  in  these  two  states  —  yes,  and  in  a  dozen 
more !  - —  shall  know  him  for  a  scoundrel  and  a  rob- 
ber! He  dares  to  run  for  Governor,  does  he? 
The  drunken  poseur!  The  damned  hypocrite! 
He  shall  be  jail-bird  again  and  once  for  all,  when  I 
am  through  with  him !  He  shall  lie  and  rot  with  a 
chain  and  ball  on  his  leg!  He  — " 

He  stopped.  A  needled  stab  of  pain  had  darted, 
like  a  bee's  sting,  through  his  brow,  beneath  the 
bandage,  and  there  flashed  to  him  suddenly  the 
warning  of  the  surgeon,  on  the  day  he  had  left  the 
hospital  in  Buda-Pesth :  "...  the  tiniest  hem- 
orrhage in  the  affected  area  and  all  my  surgery  could 
not  undo  — " 

He  stood  still  an  instant,  breathing  heavily. 
Then  he  caught  up  his  hat  and  turned  to  the  door. 

Treadwell  was  looking  at  him  curiously.  The 
outburst  had  tended  to  reinforce  the  suspicion  that 
had  already  come  to  him  as  to  the  other's  mental 


THE  PITFALL  341 

condition.  "What  do  you  intend  to  do?"  he 
asked. 

"  I  am  going  to  the  Penitentiary,  the  physical  re- 
cord of  the  prisoner  is  there.  I  shall  have  it  when 
I  come  back.  I  presume  you  would  call  that  evi- 
dence?" 

"  The  best  —  if  the  measurements  proved  identi- 
cal with  Sevier's.  I  daresay  he  would  be  willing  to 
submit  to  the  test,"  Treadwell  added,  thoughtfully. 
"  —  And  then?" 

"  The  election  is  day  after  to-morrow.  I  shall 
wait  till  the  polls  have  closed,  naturally,  before  I 
show  him  up.  A  convict,  or  one  who  has  served  a 
penal  term,  under  the  state  constitution,  can  hold 
no  office  of  public  trust.  I  am  advised  that  the  new 
ticket  is  likely  to  win.  The  Trust's  candidate  will 
be  next  in  the  running,  and  with  Sevier  out,  must  be 
declared  elected.  Where  will  Sevier  receive  the 
returns?  " 

"  At  Midfields,  I  imagine,"  Treadwell  replied. 
"  It's  the  committee  headquarters.  Governor  Eve- 
land  of  your  State  is  to  be  a  guest  there,  I  hear. 
He's  very  much  interested  in  this  campaign,  being 
something  of  a  reformer  himself." 

"  So  much  the  better !  The  Governor  himself 
shall  ask  for  the  warrant  for  Sevier's  arrest.  We 
will  go  there  that  evening." 

"  We !  "  repeated  Treadwell. 

"  Yes.  You  will  come  with  me  —  as  my  attor- 
ney." 


342      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

"  But  I  don't  approve  the  step !  "  protested  the 
other.  "  I  consider  the  whole  affair  preposter- 
ous!" 

"  I  am  under  the  impression,"  retorted  Craig, 
darkly,  "  that  you  are  still  under  my  retainer  —  not 
Sevier's." 

Treadwell  flushed.  "  If  you  put  it  in  that  way," 
he  said  stiffly,  "  I  shall  of  course  accompany  you. 
But  you  have  my  legal  opinion." 

Craig  jerked  the  door  open. 

"  I'll  meet  you  at  Midfields  at  eight  that  eve- 
ning," he  said. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

THE   LIGHTED   FUSE 

IN  the  Warden's  office  at  the  Penitentiary  next 
morning  —  the  same  room  Harry  Sevier  had 
entered  when  he  had  first  stepped  under  the 
gloomy  prison  archway  —  Craig  stood  staring  out  of 
the  open  window  across  the  yellow  courtyard.  The 
last  move  in  the  game  was  at  hand  —  the  game  he 
had  made  up  his  mind  now  to  play  out  alone,  to  the 
last  card. 

He  had  not  taken  the  Warden  into  his  confidence, 
though  he  had  sat  talking  with  him  for  a  half  hour. 
From  him  he  had  heard  the  tale  of  the  escape  of 
prisoner  No.  239  —  a  tender  subject  with  the  offi- 
cial, but  one  in  which  his  influential  visitor  had  ex- 
hibited a  particular  interest.  To  the  Warden  the 
latter's  concern  for  a  scoundrel  who  had  come  with- 
in an  ace  of  murdering  him  seemed  natural  enough. 
It  would  be  in  keeping  with  Craig's  determined  and 
vindictive  character  to  exhaust  every  effort  to  appre- 
hend the  fugitive.  To  some  intention  of  this  sort 
the  Warden  had  laid  his  caller's  further  inquiries 
concerning  the  pickpocket  who  had  been  the  missing 
man's  cell-mate. 

Craig,  however,  had  had  reason  of  another  sort. 
It  had  chagrined  him  to  learn  that  with  the  prisoner 
343 


344      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

had  disappeared  the  record-card  on  which  he  had 
counted  as  a  piece  of  tangible  evidence.  But  this 
was  not  an  essential,  since,  once  denounced,  Harry 
Sevier  would  be  put  upon  the  defensive,  and  the  one 
conclusive  and  natural  defence  —  an  alibi  —  he 
could  not  furnish.  In  the  meantime,  however,  the 
sensational  accusation  should  be  supported,  and  what 
more  to  this  purpose  than  the  convict  who  had 
shared  No.  239*3  very  cell?  Promise  of  a  pardon 
—  he  could  arrange  that  with  the  Board  —  would 
make  the  fellow  tractable,  and  he  could  take  him 
with  him  on  parole. 

The  plan  in  his  mind  had  leaped  into  action.  He 
had  expressed  a  wish  to  talk  with  Paddy  the  Brick 
and  the  Warden  had  sent  for  him.  Craig  was  wait- 
ing the  man's  coming  now,  as  he  stood  looking 
across  the  yard  toward  the  vast  round  dormitory 
that  tossed  back  the  rumble  of  the  toiling  shops. 
There  was  an  evil  gloating  in  the  fixed,  speculative 
eyes  —  in  imagination  Craig  was  seeing  Harry  Se- 
vier once  more  a  denizen  of  that  dismal  place,  a 
felon,  and  irrevocably  shamed  now  in  name  and 
fame. 

The  door  opened  and  a  turnkey  entered,  a  figure 
in  striped  clothes  with  him. 

"  Here's  your  man,  Mr.  Craig,"  said  the  War- 
den. 

Craig  turned  from  the  window  and  set  his  eyes 
on  Paddy  the  Brick.  He  gave  a  sudden  start  which 
the  Warden,  who  had  crossed  to  his  desk  and  was 


THE  LIGHTED  FUSE  345 

searching  in  its  pigeon-holes,  did  not  see.  Paddy 
the  Brick  shrank  back,  and  a  quick  gleam  of  fear  ran 
across  his  pallid  features.  For  each  —  the  would- 
be  murderer  and  the  man  he  had  shot  —  in  the  self- 
same instant  recognised  the  other. 

At  the  fierce  anger  that  blazed  in  Craig's  face 
Paddy  the  Brick  drew  further  back,  his  eyes  darting 
from  the  man  by  the  window  to  the  Warden  and 
back  again,  and  his  hand  went  instinctively  out  to  the 
table  to  clutch  a  heavy,  brass-edged  ruler  the  only 
weapon  at  hand.  It  seemed  at  the  instant  that  the 
other  was  about  to  leap  upon  him,  to  kill  him  with 
his  working  hands.  But  Craig  recovered  himself  in 
time.  He  looked  at  the  Warden. 

"  I  should  like  to  talk  with  him  alone,"  he  said, 
"  if  that  is  permissible." 

"  Certainly,"  the  Warden  answered.  "  As  long 
as  you  like,"  and  left  the  room  with  the  paper  he 
had  been  looking  for. 

As  the  door  closed,  Craig  bent  a  long  look  upon 
the  man  who  stood  there.  "  Don't  be  a  fool,"  he 
said.  "  Put  that  thing  down.  I'm  not  going  to  hurt 
you.  I  want  to  ask  you  some  questions." 

Paddy  the  Brick  laid  the  ruler  down,  but  he  kept 
the  table  between  them. 

"  Did  you  know  who  the  man  was  who  broke 
into  my  house  with  you  —  the  one  who  was 
caught?" 

The  other  looked  at  him  cunningly.  "  The  one 
you  swore  shot  you?" 


346      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

Craig's  fingers  twitched.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  after 
a  pause. 

"  No.     I  never  saw  him  before  that  night." 

"  What  did  he  pay  you  for  that  job?  " 

Paddy  the  Brick  stared.  "Good  Lord!  He 
wasn't  one  of  us.  He  just  happened  in  for  a  social 
call !  "  He  leaned  across  the  table.  "  Say,"  he 
whispered,  "  what  did  you  want  to  hang  him  for?  " 

There  was  in  the  posture,  the  whisper,  an  inex- 
pressible assumption  of  identity  of  interest  which 
stung  and  galled  the  man  who  faced  him.  The 
blood  welled  into  Craig's  face,  then  very  slowly 
ebbed. 

"  Would  you  know  him  again,  if  he  had  changed 
his  appearance?  If,  for  instance,  he  wore  a 
beard?" 

"  Know  him !  "  Paddy  the  Brick  jerked  his  thumb 
toward  the  window.  "  Why,  we  was  mates  over 
there." 

Craig  looked  at  him  steadily  for  a  moment  with- 
out speaking.  Then  he  pointed  to  a  chair. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said. 

At  midnight  that  night  the  home  city  of  Harry 
Sevier  was  ablaze  with  lights  and  throbbing  with  the 
last  feverish  activity  of  a  strenuous  campaign.  The 
candidate  of  the  new  party  had  returned  that  after- 
noon from  a  tour  of  the  southern  portion  of  the 
state,  and  plenteous  bunting,  everywhere  displayed, 
testified  to  an  enthusiasm  that,  carefully  fostered  by 


THE  LIGHTED  FUSE  347 

his  lieutenants,  had  permeated  every  section  and 
class.  That  evening,  to  ring  down  the  curtain  with 
a  brilliant  finale,  a  torchlight  procession  had  been 
organised.  Ten  thousand  strong,  the  blazing  flam- 
beaux had  marched  and  countermarched  along  the 
city's  main  thoroughfares,  and  Harry  had  reviewed 
them  from  the  balcony  of  the  hotel  which  was  the 
party's  rendezvous. 

He  had  flung  himself  into  the  fight  with  every 
ounce  of  his  splendid  vitality  which  had  been  deep- 
ened and  strengthened  by  the  months  of  mountain 
solitude.  There  was  infinitely  more  at  issue  now 
than  he  had  dreamed  when  he  canvassed  chances  at 
the  bungalow.  The  cause  of  the  new  party  had  then 
seemed  inevitably  a  losing  one.  But  during  that 
long  campaign  —  particularly  in  the  last  few  weeks 
—  it  had  been  borne  in  upon  him  that  the  time  had 
been  ripe  for  the  venture.  Long  arrogance  and 
effrontery  had  borne  their  legitimate  fruit  in  a  pro- 
found resentment  that  had  been  fanned  to  vivid 
life  by  the  quickening  breath.  There  had  been  an 
erasure  of  old  lines,  and  at  length  the  party  in 
power,  aroused  and  desperate,  had  found  itself 
fighting  for  its  life.  There  were  no  odds  offered 
that  day  on  its  victory !  Once  committed,  however, 
there  had  been  no  turning  back  possible.  Harry's 
bridges  had  been  burned  behind  him.  He  could 
only  go  forward,  and,  fighting  on,  he  had  striven 
to  thrust  his  problem,  with  its  increasing  implica- 
tions, into  the  background  of  his  mind.  And  in 


348      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

spite  of  himself  the  zest  of  victory  had  absorbed 
him.  To-night's  parade  had  been  an  inspiring  spec- 
tacle and  it  had  called  from  him  the  last  speech  of 
the  campaign. 

As  he  closed,  amid  the  shouting  and  applause,  a 
motor  drew  up  at  the  curb  and  stopped  just  before 
the  hotel  entrance.  On  its  rear  seat,  shielded  from 
the  gaze  of  the  pavement  by  the  leather  hood,  was 
Cameron  Craig,  and  beside  the  chauffeur  sat  Paddy 
the  Brick. 

The  crowds  thinned,  began  to  melt  away;  here 
and  there  the  golden  square  of  a  window  went  black 
on  the  quieting  street.  Still  the  car  made  no  move. 
At  length  a  little  knot  of  men  issued  from  the  hotel 
lobby,  pausing  in  the  lighted  doorway  to  say  good 
night  to  one  another.  Craig  leaned  forward. 

"  The  one  in  the  centre,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  The  one  with  the  beard." 

As  he  spoke,  Harry  Sevier's  look  crossed  the 
pavement  and  met  squarely  Craig's  envenomed  gaze. 
He  saw  the  heavy  head  thrust  forward  from  the 
hood,  with  the  white  bandage  across  the  temple  and 
under  it  the  smouldering,  implacable  eyes.  For  a 
space  that  seemed  interminable  the  eyes  held  each 
other.  A  ghastly  expression  crossed  his  face. 
Very  slowly  he  turned  and  re-entered  the  lobby. 

Brent,  who  was  the  last  to  leave  him,  looked  at 
him  anxiously. 

"  You're  about  all  in,"  he  said.  "  You  look  posi- 
tively ill." 


THE  LIGHTED  FUSE  349 

Harry  tried  to  smile. 

"  It's  nothing.  I  think  I'll  rest  now."  His  voice 
had  all  at  once  lost  its  timbre,  had  become  flat  and 
expressionless.  All  the  electric  force,  the  fire  and 
enthusiasm,  had  faded  from  it. 

Brent  held  out  his  hand.  "  Thank  heaven  it's 
over  —  all  but  the  voting ! "  he  said  fervently. 
"  It's  the  reaction,  I  suppose." 

"Yes,"  replied  Harry,  dully.  "No  doubt  it's 
the  reaction." 

He  turned  and  went  slowly  to  the  elevator. 

In  the  automobile  at  the  curb  Craig  touched 
Paddy  the  Brick  on  the  shoulder.  "Well?"  he 
asked.  "  Is  he  number  239?  " 

Paddy  the  Brick  looked  at  him  with  a  white  fury 
distorting  his  features. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  he's  239  or  not,"  he  said, 
"  but  I'd  swear  to  anything  that  would  *  fix '  him ! 
That's  the  lawyer  that  let  them  send  me  up  two 
years  ago !  " 


CHAPTER  XLV 

THE   CHASM 

THE  elevator  deposited  Harry  at  the  third 
floor,  where  was  the  suite  of  rooms  that 
he  had  occupied  while  in  town  during  the 
campaign,  as  being  more  accessible  than  his  own 
apartment.  The  outer  chamber  of  the  suite  was 
set  with  all  the  paraphernalia  of  a  committee-room, 
with  a  huge  writing-table  and  several  small  desks 
holding  telegraph  instruments  installed  to  receive 
the  returns.  To-morrow  would  find  it  humming 
with  excitement,  but  it  was  deserted  now.  He  had 
given  Suzuki,  his  valet,  the  evening  off. 

He  shut  the  door  and  stood  a  moment  leaning 
against  it.  His  eyes  were  blank,  his  face  set.  He 
had  not  known  of  Cameron  Craig's  journey  abroad, 
nor  in  the  rush  of  the  campaign  had  he  seen  the 
newspaper  paragraph  which  told  of  the  success  of 
the  operation  in  Buda-Pesth.  But  in  the  single  look 
across  the  pavement  he  had  leaped  to  the  truth. 
Craig  had  recovered  his  faculties  —  there  had  been 
full  knowledge  and  vengeful  purpose  in  the  haggard 
eyes.  What  he  had  dreaded,  the  possibility  which 
he  had  of  late  locked  in  an  inner  chamber  of  his 
mind,  had  come  to  pass.  All  was  finished  I  The 
Sword  of  Damocles  was  about  to  fall! 
350 


THE  CHASM  35 1 

What  remained?  To  creep  away,  like  a  dastard, 
he,  the  leader  in  the  fight?  To  fly,  like  the  discov- 
ered thief,  as  he  had  once  thought  of  doing?  Even 
that  was  impossible  now.  He  knew  his  enemy  too 
well  to  suppose  that  he  would  have  left  that  way 
open!  The  other  was  but  playing  with  him,  like 
a  cat  with  a  mouse,  till  the  moment  came  to  pub- 
licly denounce  him.  For  with  a  kind  of  prescience 
he  guessed  Craig's  real  purpose,  to  seize  the  cli- 
mactic moment  and  abstract  from  his  humiliation  the 
last  ounce  of  sensationalism. 

All  night,  in  the  silent,  empty  apartment,  under 
the  brilliant  lights,  Harry  strode  up  and  down  — 
up  and  down  tirelessly,  his  face  white,  his  hands 
clenched,  confronting  the  blank  wall  that  reared 
before  him.  Temptation,  in  its  most  insidious  form, 
fell  upon  him.  Why  should  he  not  brazen  it  out? 
After  all,  the  burden  of  proof  was  upon  his  accuser. 
He  had  destroyed  the  record-card  which  had  held 
his  physical  measurements.  Jubilee  Jim  could  be 
depended  upon  to  swear  to  his  presence  at  the  bun- 
galow through  the  winter:  wild  horses  would  drag 
no  other  story  from  his  faithful  lips.  Simple  and 
God-fearing  as  the  old  negro  was,  love  for  his  master 
was  one  of  the  prime  articles  of  his  emotional  and 
uncomplex  religion.  For  that  love  he  would  un- 
questioningly  risk  even  the  fires  of  the  material  hell 
of  which  his  Bible  told  him!  Such  an  alibi  would 
hold.  What  other  proof  could  Craig  bring  for- 
ward, further  than  a  fortuitous  resemblance,  ma- 


352      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

terially  weakened  now  by  hair  and  beard,  to  a  one- 
time convict  in  a  penitentiary  in  another  state? 

Was  he  not  doubly  justified  in  this  deception? 
He  was  really  innocent.  If  he  foreswore  himself  a 
thousand  times,  it  would  be  in  the  way  both  of  justice 
and  expediency.  It  would  solve  the  problem.  The 
new  Cause  needed  him.  Had  he  any  right  to  fling 
himself  away,  merely  in  the  interest  of  fictitious 
truth,  on  the  mawkish  principle  of  "  Thou  shalt  not 
do  evil  that  good  may  come  "  ? 

Yet,  to  perjure  himself!  To  know  himself  liar 
and  hypocrite,  even  in  the  hour  when  he  should  kiss 
the  holy  volume  in  the  vows  of  a  high  office?  He 
who  even  in  that  past  that  had  been  clouded  by 
egoistic  eccentricity  and  marred  by  dissipation,  had 
always  counted  an  oath  sacred !  To  bind  that  faith- 
ful servant  on  the  mountain  to  a  black  perjury  — 
which  would  shadow  his  imagination  with  the  smoke 
of  the  eternal  burning! 

There  came  to  him  suddenly  the  memory  of  words 
that  had  woven  with  the  fevered  imaginings  of  his 
.illness  on  the  mountain  —  words  of  Jubilee  Jim's 
prayer : 

"  Dey  tek  yo'  darlin'  son  ...  en  put  er  crown  o' 
tho'ns  on  he  beautiful  haid,  en  he  ain'  done  nuthin' 
'cep'n  good.  Ah  don'  keer  what  Marse  Harry  have 
on ;  Ah  reck'n  when  he  come  lak  dis,  yo'  gwine  he'p 
me  he'p  him  —  kase  dat  what  he  done  f o'  me !  " 

The  stumbling,  broken  accents  seemed  to  strike 


THE  CHASM  353 

across  the  void.  What  if,  instead  of  the  great  ma- 
chine of  recompense  that  he  had  distinguished  in  that 
prison  experience,  there  were  indeed  a  personal  God, 
as  Jubilee  Jim  believed,  throned  in  his  vast  white 
heaven  of  glory  —  a  God  pitiful  for  the  agony  of 
his  human  creatures.  Would  he  look  down  now 
and  hear  his  cry  for  help?  Harry  flung  himself 
suddenly  on  his  knees,  and  leaned  his  forehead 
against  the  dark  wainscoting.  He  knew  that  he 
uttered  no  word,  but  all  his  being  seemed  to  resolve 
itself  into  an  inarticulate  cry  for  aidance.  It  was 
the  first  appeal  of  his  life  to  something  outside  of 
himself,  the  first  cry  of  human  weakness,  groping 
in  its  utter  hopelessness  for  the  Infinite.  It  was  the 
last  step  of  the  long  way  Harry  had  travelled  — 
from  self-abasement  to  remorse  and  awakening  con- 
science, through  struggle  with  appetite  to  victory 
over  himself,  self-abnegation,  acquiescence  in  the 
great  law  of  retribution,  and  finally,  in  his  despair, 
to  prayer. 

And  out  of  the  deep  to  which  he  had  called,  calm- 
ness at  length  came  to  him,  and  with  it  a  clear  and 
steady  purpose.  As  dawn  took  down  the  red  draw- 
bars of  the  sky  to  let  in  the  day,  he  threw  open  a 
shutter  and  stood  looking  down  with  aching  eyes 
upon  the  drowsily-waking  street.  There  should  be 
no  lying  denial,  no  cowardly  evasion  —  nothing  less 
than  the  naked  truth.  If  fate,  if  God,  demanded 
this  last  thing  of  him  —  if  only  so  could  he  balance 


354     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

the  account  —  he  would  not  repine.  He  had  fought 
the  fight,  and  at  the  last,  so  far  as  he  could,  he 
would  keep  the  faith ! 

Before  the  hotel  had  awakened,  Harry  was  in  his 
own  apartment.  He  had  left  a  note  for  Brent,  who 
was  to  be  in  charge  at  the  hotel  suite,  saying  briefly 
that  he  should  not  appear  that  day,  but  would  be 
with  the  Committee  at  eight  o'clock.  He  had  sent 
the  same  message  also  to  Judge  Allen.  He  told 
Suzuki  to  admit  no  one,  disconnected  his  telephone, 
and  thereafter  remained  at  his  desk  writing,  a  plate 
of  sandwiches  at  his  elbow,  bending  himself  to  the 
final  arrangement  of  the  details  of  his  personal  af- 
fairs, as  he  might  have  done,  he  thought  once,  if 
by  some  clairvoyancy  he  foresaw  that  to-morrow  he 
would  die.  Death,  indeed,  would  have  been  a  wel- 
come solution  if  by  it  he  could  have  bought  extrica- 
tion. Was  he  not  going,  living,  to  a  worse  death 
than  he  should  ever  die  ? 

As  the  mantel-clock  struck  seven,  he  laid  the  last 
written  paper  in  the  desk-drawer  and  rising,  went 
into  his  dressing-room.  He  bathed  and  dressed, 
the  last  time  in  his  life,  he  told  himself,  that  he  should 
don  the  evening  habilaments  of  a  gentleman  — 
grave-clothes !  For  the  blow  would  not  be  delayed. 
To-morrow,  no  doubt,  the  state  would  ring  with  his 
downfall.  To-night  —  in  the  hour  of  his  victory, 
if  victory  should  be  his  —  he  would  write  finis  to 
the  final  chapter  and  surrender  himself  to  the  law. 


THE  CHASM  355 

It  was  just  at  the  half-hour  when  Harry  opened 
the  outer  door  of  his  apartment.  But  he  did  not 
pass  through.  Three  men  had  been  waiting  silently 
just  across  the  threshold.  One  of  them  was  Craig. 
They  entered  without  a  word,  Craig  shut  the  door 
and  one  of  the  others  took  his  stand  before  it. 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

CRAIG   STRIKES 

SEVIER  had  stepped  back  as  they  entered. 
He  had  not  been  startled  at  the  ambush;  he 
had  gone  past  surprises.  He  was  conscious 
only  of  a  cold  preparedness  and  a  kind  of  dull  won- 
der as  to  the  form  of  their  errand.  The  purpose 
in  Craig's  face  left  no  cause  for  any  speculation  as 
to  their  intent.  He  looked  at  the  other's  two  com- 
panions, perfect  types  of  the  "  heeler,"  burly  and 
with  brutally-cunning  features,  that  wore  now  a  gloze 
of  satisfaction  in  the  work  that  was  forward.  They 
were  not  in  uniform  —  it  was  not  an  arrest,  then. 
What  did  Craig  intend  to  do?  He  turned,  set  his 
hat  on  the  hall  table  and  passed  into  the  sitting-room. 
Craig  followed  him.  Harry  now  saw  that  he 
carried  a  compact  bundle  under  his  arm.  He 
snapped  the  cord  and  disclosed  a  costume  —  jacket 
and  trousers  of  black  and  yellow-grey  stripes  and  a 
flat,  peaked  cap  of  dingy  canvas.  Around  one  arm 
of  the  jacket  was  a  leathern  band  which  bore  a  metal 
number  —  239 1 

"  Put  them  on,"  commanded  Craig  shortly. 
"  Over  what  you  are  wearing.  They'll  be  large 
enough." 

356 


CRAIG  STRIKES  357 

A  painful  mist  was  before  Harry's  eyes.  He 
understood.  Craig  meant  to  give  him  up  stamped 
with  the  old  felon  character,  clothed  in  the  unmis- 
takable livery  of  the  convict !  Well,  if  not  to-night, 
to-morrow.  What  did  it  matter? 

As  he  drew  on  the  loathsome  garments,  buttoning 
the  jacket  close  up  to  his  chin,  their  very  touch 
seemed  to  cling  insupportably  to  his  flesh.  The 
smell  of  the  coarse  fulled  cloth  in  his  nostrils  gave 
him  a  qualm  as  of  actual  physical  sickness,  and  the 
feel  of  the  canvas  cap  across  his  forehead  burned 
it  like  a  brand. 

Craig  had  taken  from  his  pocket  a  black  cloth 
mask.  "  Now  this,"  he  said.  "  I  believe  you  wore 
one  in  your  last  burglary,"  he  added  with  cold  malev- 
olence. "  I  am  disposed  to  miss  no  realistic  touch, 
believe  me." 

Harry  put  on  the  mask,  whose  lower  hem  fell 
below  his  beard.  Through  its  eye-holes  he  looked 
evenly  at  the  sneering,  implacable  face  opposite.  A 
peculiar  apathy  had  come  to  him.  The  wide  humili- 
ation —  even  the  cheap  and  ghastly  sensationalism  of 
the  mask  did  not  touch  him.  Like  the  hapless  voy- 
ageur  caught  in  the  rapids  above  the  great  falls,  he 
was  watching  the  nearing  brink  with  a  kind  of  fas- 
cination and  with  the  roar  of  the  cataract  in  his  ears. 

One  of  the  men  had  opened  a  window  to  peer 
down  into  the  street.  "  All  clear,"  he  announced 
briefly,  and  Craig  went  to  the  hall  and  opened  the 
door. 


358      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

A  monster  limousine  with  curtains  drawn  waited 
at  the  curb,  and  on  the  front  seat  sat  a  figure  at 
whose  pallid  face  and  red-rimmed  eyes  Harry  gazed 
without  a  start  but  with  a  strange  sensation  of  fit- 
ness. Here  indeed  was  the  real  thief  who  had  shot 
Craig,  but  leagued  now  with  his  enemy  to  his  un- 
doing ! 

Sitting  in  the  dark  interior,  as  the  car  sped  along 
with  its  silent  company,  Harry  remembered  another 
ride  of  two  years  before,  when  he  had  flung  through 
the  night  flying  from  his  own  conscience,  incarnate 
in  the  figure  that  now  rode  beside  the  chauffeur. 
Was  he  never  to  lay  that  old  ghost  ?  He  noted  dully 
that  the  streets  were  jostling  with  eager  throngs 
which  made  compact  eddies  here  and  there  before 
some  newspaper  bulletin-board  or  flaring  club-win- 
dow which  displayed  the  reports  of  the  voting,  as, 
township  by  township,  county  by  county,  the  tally 
came  in.  On  one  the  legend  was  being  posted, 
"Sexier  Leads,"  and  a  muffled  cheer  was  wafted 
after.  He  shut  his  eyes.  Almost  he  could  have 
thought  himself  in  the  grip  of  some  outre,  high- 
coloured  dream  —  but  he  knew  that  it  was  no  dream. 

The  limousine  slowed  and  stopped.  Harry 
turned  his  head  as  the  door  opened;  they  were  at 
the  gate  of  Midfields. 

As  they  neared  the  upper  end  of  the  drive,  a 
man  rose  from  the  steps  and  came  toward  them. 
It  was  Lawrence  Treadwell.  He  started  as  if  he 
had  been  stung  at  sight  of  the  masked  and  striped 


CRAIG  STRIKES  359 

figure  between  its  stolid  escort.     He  turned  on  Craig, 
his  eyes  blazing  with  amazement  and  anger. 

"  My  God!  "  he  cried.  "  You  haven't  dared  — 
but  this  is  infamous.  It's  an  outrage !  You  — " 

"  Keep  your  place !  "  ground  Craig.  "  I  tell  you 
I  know  what  I'm  doing!  " 

"  It's  my  private  opinion  you're  as  crazy  as  a 
March  hare,"  retorted  the  other,  "  but  if  you  are 
right,  I'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,  do  you  under- 
stand ?  Nothing !  I  don't  care  what  your  damned 
evidence  is !  " 

Craig  turned  his  back  on  him  and  led  the  way 
up  the  steps,  and  after  an  instant's  hesitation  Tread- 
well  followed.  Through  an  open  window  Harry 
glimpsed  the  interior  of  the  east  room,  dismantled 
now  for  the  evening's  strenuous  occupation,  where 
several  masculine  figures  were  grouped  about  a  table, 
excitedly  working  over  charts,  and  he  could  hear  the 
irritant  buzz  of  the  telephone  as  it  signalled  the  bul- 
letins that  were  beginning  now  to  pour  into  the  busy 
hotel  suite  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire.  Craig  did 
not  ring  at  the  big  door  but  led  the  way  along  the 
porch  to  a  French-window,  of  the  library,  which 
stood  ajar.  He  peered  into  it,  then  with  an  ex- 
clamation of  satisfaction  motioned  the  two  atten- 
dants back,  said  a  low  word  to  Paddy  the  Brick  at 
his  heels,  and  flung  the  window  open. 

Sevier  entered,  Craig  and  his  stool-pigeon  next. 
Treadwell  followed  and  drew  the  window  to  behind 
him. 


CHAPTER  XLVII 

WITH    HIS   BACK  TO   THE   WALL 

IN  the  wide,  lamp-lighted  room  into  which  this 
weird  quartette  had  so  startlingly  entered,  be- 
fore the  capacious  fireplace  two  men  had  been 
sitting  smoking  —  Judge  Allen  and  his  friend  Gov- 
ernor Eveland.  At  the  sudden  apparition  both  had 
turned  sharply  toward  the  window  —  two  strangely 
dissimilar  figures:  the  Judge  slight  and  spare  and 
scholarly,  his  pale,  finely-chiselled  features  tinged  in 
the  glow;  the  other  deep-chested  and  powerful,  of 
herculean  mould,  with  a  rugged  face  made  almost 
patriarchal  by  the  long  grey  beard  which  swept  his 
chest:  both  countenances  for  the  instant  curiously 
alike  in  their  expression  of  shocked  surprise. 

The  Judge  arose  abruptly  from  his  chair,  his  gaze 
shifting  from  the  masked  figure  in  striped  clothes 
to  Craig's  face,  eagerly  alight  and  triumphant.  He 
had  no  welcome  for  this  summary  entrance. 

"  Who  is  responsible  for  this  intrusion?  "  he  asked 
coldly. 

Craig  laughed.  "  I  am  responsible,"  he  said. 
"  I  have  business  with  you  both.  For  some  time, 
as  you  are  aware,  I  have  been  debarred  from  such 
pursuits.  However,  I  am  now  myself  again,  and 
free  to  pick  up  lost  threads.  Hence  my  call  to- 
night." 

360 


WITH  HIS  BACK  TO  THE  WALL     361 

"  It  can  wait  a  more  opportune  time."  The 
Judge  spoke  with  asperity.  "  Moreover,  I  must  ask' 
you  to  remember  that  I  have  servants  to  announce 
my  guests." 

"  Apologies  may  be  in  order  later,"  Craig  re- 
turned, "  if  my  errand  does  not  justify  itself.  My 
business  with  you  is  to  inform  you  that  you  and  your 
friends  have  been  giving  countenance  to  a  man  whom 
the  law  is  tracking  down  —  a  convict  who  escaped 
from  prison  in  the  next  state  some  months  ago. 
You  see  him  before  you."  He  looked  at  the  Gov- 
ernor, who  had  neither  moved  nor  spoken  —  he  had 
small  liking  for  Cameron  Craig.  "  My  business 
with  you,  Governor  Eveland,  is  to  demand  that  you 
call  upon  the  local  authorities  to  arrest  this  jailbird, 
pending  his  extradiction  to  your  own  jurisdiction.  I 
have  brought  with  me,  under  my  personal  surety,  an 
inmate  of  the  penitentiary  " —  he  pointed  to  Paddy 
the  Brick  — "  who  was  this  criminal's  cellmate  and 
who  has  identified  him." 

There  was  a  slight  pause  before  the  Governor 
replied.  He  had  shared  his  host's  irritation  at  the 
unceremonious  entrance  and  this  was  allayed  by  no 
regard  for  Craig,  whom  he  had  always  reckoned 
an  evil  influence  in  the  activities  of  the  state  of  which 
he  himself  was  Chief  Executive.  Now  the  pallid 
face  with  its  bandage  across  one  temple,  the  dis- 
tempered eyes  and  strange  excitement,  smote  him 
with  distaste. 

"  I  like  neither  your  method  nor  your  manner, 


362      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

Mr.  Craig.  This  would  seem  to  be  a  matter  for 
the  police,  not  for  me,  nor,  I  take  it,  for  Judge 
Allen.  Why  you  choose  to  drag  this  man  here,  at 
such  a  moment,  with  this  skulduddery  of  mask  and 
stripes,  I  cannot  imagine." 

Craig  laughed  again,  sneeringly.  "  A  little  fancy 
of  my  own,  and  regard  for  the  dramatic  propri- 
eties .  .  ." 

Treadwell  strode  forward  with  an  exclamation. 

"Judge  —  Governor  Eveland!"  he  said  explo- 
sively. "  Let  me  say  something.  I  came  here  to- 
night purely  in  my  capacity  of  Cameron  Craig's 
attorney,  intent  only  on  saving  him  from  what 
seemed  to  me  a  piece  of  brazen  lunacy.  But  I  begin 
to  see  that  there  is  something  behind  this,  and  if 
it  isn't  lunacy  it  is  something  I  like  still  less.  I 
withdraw  here  and  now  from  any  connection  with 
him  or  this  action  — " 

"  Withdraw  and  be  damned !  "  Craig  flung  him, 
savagely.  "  I  know  what  I  am  about!  "  His  voice 
rose.  "  That  man,  Governor  Eveland,  is  an  es- 
caped prisoner  from  the  penitentiary  of  your  state ! 
Tear  off  his  mask  and  see  for  yourselves  who  our 
*  John  Doe  '  really  is  —  this  fine  thief  and  would-be 
murderer  —  the  man  who  shot  me  down  a  year 
ago!" 

"  Stop !  "  The  Governor's  voice  rang  through 
the  room.  He  was  on  his  feet  now,  stern  authority 
in  every  line  of  his  posture.  "  Mr.  Craig,  listen  to 
me!  You  have  thrust  yourself  here  without  war- 


WITH  HIS  BACK  TO  THE  WALL    363 

rant  of  right  or  of  invitation,  in  a  matter  which 
you  —  not  I  —  have  elected  to  make  my  business. 
Very  well :  I  take  the  affair  and  this  prisoner  into 
my  own  hands.  Do  you  understand?" 

He  paused,  his  lips  clipped  to  like  shears. 
Craig's  outburst,  vicious  with  suppressed  fury,  had 
given  him  a  lightning-like  glimpse  into  something 
unguessed  in  the  situation.  The  man  before  him, 
then,  in  this  convict  dress,  was  the  burglar  convicted 
of  that  old  shooting  —  the  prisoner  whom  he  had 
seen  at  the  court-house,  and  whose  personality  had 
so  attracted  and  puzzled  him.  Yet  there  was  more 
beneath  Craig's  attitude  than  an  understandable  de- 
sire to  punish  the  man  who  had  shot  him :  more  than 
that  in  those  infuriate  eyes,  shaking  hands  and  ma- 
licious triumph.  The  Governor  had  a  hatred  of 
persecution.  His  mind  worked  according  to  a  law 
of  stern  and  inflexible  justice,  yet  to  him  justice 
opened  itself  to  no  assault  of  man's  passions. 

Under  that  holding  look  Craig  sat  down  heavily, 
angry  arrogance  in  his  face.  Treadwell  took  a  chair 
near  him,  and  Paddy  the  Brick  remained  standing 
in  the  background,  his  small  eyes  glancing  furtively 
from  one  to  the  other. 

The  Governor  resumed  his  seat  and  bent  his  de- 
liberate gaze  on  the  figure  that  had  been  standing 
movelessly  before  him.  A  quick  memory  had  come 
to  him  of  the  other's  face,  now  hidden,  as  he  remem- 
bered to  have  once  seen  it  —  clear-eyed,  vivid  and 
forceful,  strangely  lacking  in  the  ear-marks  of  the 


364     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

criminal,  a  face  that  had  often  recalled  itself  to  his 
mind  since  that  day.  He  had  no  vulgar  curiosity, 
but  the  patent  mystery  in  the  background  called  to 
him  strangely. 

"  Are  you,  as  this  man  alleges,  a  prisoner  who 
some  months  ago  broke  jail  in  the  adjoining  state?  " 

"  I  am."  The  voice,  muffled  by  the  mask,  was 
low  but  distinct. 

"  The  man  who  shot  him  in  his  library?  " 

"  No." 

The  questioning,  deep  grey  eyes  looked  steadily 
at  the  mask  —  it  seemed  as  if  the  gaze  would  bore 
through  the  cloth.  "  But  you  were  found  guilty  of 
that  offence  I  " 

"  I  was  convicted,  yes." 

The  Governor  was  silent  a  moment;  then  his  hand 
reached  for  the  pen  on  the  table.  "  On  the  admis- 
sion, 4ien,"  he  said  slowly,  "  it  is  my  duty  to  request 
the  authorities  to  take  you  into  custody.  You  are 
aware  of  your  rights  under  the  law?  " 

The  striped  figure  bowed.  "  I  am.  I  shall  waive 
extradition.  With  your  permission,  however,  I 
should  like  to  make  a  statement." 

"  He  can  make  that  in  the  jail,"  interposed  Craig 
contemptuously.  "  Take  off  his  mask  and  send  for 
the  police." 

The  Governor  frowned.  "  He  can  make  it  here 
and  now,  if  he  so  chooses.  This  is  not  your  house, 
Mr.  Craig.  If  you  do  not  care  to  listen,  there  will 


WITH  HIS  BACK  TO  THE  WALL    365 

be  no  objection  to  your  withdrawal  —  with  your  wit- 
ness." 

There  was  a  fleeting  pause,  in  which  a  livid  red 
mounted  to  Craig's  brow,  dark  against  the  bandage. 
Then  the  Governor  turned. 

**  Do  you  take  your  solemn  oath  that  what  you 
are  about  to  say  is  the  truth,  the  whole  truth  and 
nothing  but  the  truth?  " 

"  I  do." 

The  Governor  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  "  You 
may  make  your  statement,"  he  said  quietly. 

Harry  bowed.  He  was  feeling  a  chill  sense  of 
estrangement,  as  though  the  bars  that  were  so  soon 
to  shut  him  from  the  life  of  which  he  had  been  a 
part  had  already  fallen  between  him  and  his  friends. 
But  he  was  oddly  self-controlled.  In  the  few  mo- 
ments he  had  been  thinking  swiftly  —  not  of  him- 
self, but  of  the  cause  he  represented,  the  men  who 
had  pinned  their  faith  upon  him  and  whom  he  had 
betrayed,  whose  leader,  Judge  Allen,  sat  there  now 
ignorant  of  the  ruin  that  overwhelmed  them.  To 
say  to  him,  "  I,  Harry  Sevier,  whom  you  honoured, 
whom  you  made  the  bearer  of  your  party  banner, 
reached  forth  for  this  trust  knowing  myself  a  hunted 
man,  outlawed  of  honest  folk !  "  They  were  his 
friends,  his  loyal  comrades  in  the  fight,  men  whose 
friendship  had  been  tried  out  by  long  years!  In 
this  last  hour  he  shrank  from  a  judgment  biased  with 


,366     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

sympathy,  and  a  fierce  craving  was  rising  in  him  for 
a  justification  based  on  no  personal  appeal. 

He  took  a  step  backward  to  the  mantel  and  stood 
thus,  a  little  removed  from  them,  looking  from  one 
to  the  other.  He  spoke  in  a  low  voice  —  not  the 
alert,  vibrant  voice  of  the  old  Harry  Sevier,  but  one 
alien,  metallic,  and  strangely  devoid  of  feeling. 

"  What  I  have  to  say  may  soon  be  said.  It  was 
not  of  my  own  will  that  I  came  here  with  covered 
face,  and  since  this  masquerade  is  not  of  my  choos- 
ing, it  may  serve  its  purpose  a  moment  longer. 
You,  Judge  Allen,  know  me  well.  Governor  Eve- 
land,  you  also  are  not  unacquainted  with  me.  With 
every  one  in  this  room  I  have  come  in  contact  —  not 
as  a  convict,  but  as  a  citizen  and  an  honest  man. 
My  association  with  you,  Judge  Allen,  has  involved 
certain  responsibilities,  and  these  I  have  accepted 
while  I  have  lain  under  the  law.  For  this  I  owe  you 
a  greater  reparation  than  I  can  ever  make.  I  know 
that  justification  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  is  impos- 
sible, but  in  your  own  mind  —  in  the  minds  of  others 
who  stand  with  you  —  it  perhaps  may  be  given  me. 
But  a  justification  is  empty  to  me  that  springs  from 
personal  sympathy.  I  want  it  as  man  to  man.  For 
this  reason  I  keep  on  the  mask  a  little  longer." 

He  paused.  The  Governor  had  not  spoken;  he 
had  settled  back  in  his  great  chair,  one  hand  in  his 
beard.  The  Judge  was  leaning  intently  forward, 
his  hands  clasped ;  he  had  never  taken  his  eyes  from 
the  speaker,  save  once  to  glance  at  Craig,  who  sat 


WITH  HIS  BACK  TO  THE  WALL    367 

with  narrowed  eyes  and  heavy  lips  curved  in  a  ma- 
licious sneer.  Treadwell's  elbow  was  on  his  knee, 
his  chin  in  his  palm,  his  brows  drawn  into  a  frown 
that  told  nothing,  and  behind  all  stood  Paddy  the 
Brick,  furtively  watching. 

When  the  striped  figure  spoke  again,  it  was  in  a 
voice  which  held  a  first  thin  thrill  of  feeling: 

"  I  have  said  that  I  lay  under  the  law,  but  it  was 
through  that  law's  error.  I  was  unjustly  accused 
and  wrongfully  convicted.  I  was  innocent." 

The  Governor  spoke,  coldly  and  deliberately. 
"  You  were  taken  at  midnight  in  the  Craig  house." 

"  I  had  entered  it  for  no  dishonest  purpose.  I 
broke  no  bolt  nor  bar  —  that  had  been  done  before 
my  arrival." 

"  You  allege,  then,  that  you  were  not  in  company 
with  the  robbers?" 

"  I  was  not.     They  were  there  when  I  entered." 

"  Why  did  you  not  give  the  alarm?  " 

"  They  made  me  their  prisoner.  A  pistol  was  at 
my  head." 

"  You  did  not  so  testify  at  your  trial." 

"  I  declined  to  testify  at  all." 

The  Governor  nodded.  "  That  is  true,"  he  said. 
"  I  remember." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  then  the  voice  con- 
tinued : 

"  It  is  sometimes  inevitable  that  the  law,  whose 
purpose  it  is  to  be  just,  is  terribly  unjust.  Sometimes 
the  sole  clue  to  a  situation  which  seems  to  spell  inevi- 


368      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

table  guilt  lies  in  a  fact,  small  in  itself,  whose  sig- 
nificance is  such  that  it  cannot  be  brought  forward. 
This  was  my  case.  The  fact  which  would  have 
cleared  me  could  not  be  told.  I  became  a  convict. 
For  six  months  I  was  an  inmate  of  the  Penitentiary. 
Then  —  the  way  opened  to  freedom,  and  I  took  it. 
What  man  would  not  have  done  so?  I  acknowl- 
edged no  right  of  the  law  over  my  body.  I  went 
back  to  my  former  life,  and  took  up  my  old  pro- 
fession here  in  this  city." 

"  Here ! "  The  Judge  muttered,  under  his 
breath. 

"  And  in  that  life  I  found  opening  responsibilities. 
New  work  called  to  me.  My  help  was  needed.  I 
could  not  shirk  it.  I  knew  the  risk  always,  but  I 
counted  it  small.  And  the  need  was  great !  With 
such  a  work  waiting  my  hand,  a  labour  that  no  one 
else,  it  seemed,  could  do  —  one  upon  which  much 
depended  —  was  I  to  stand  aside,  to  withhold  my 
effort  on  the  slender  chance  that  discovery  might 
sometime  overtake  me?  " 

The  speaker  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  Gov- 
ernor, to  have  swept  all  else  to  one  side  and  to  be 
addressing  now  only  the  Judge,  in  an  appeal  that 
touched  the  older  man  profoundly.  It  was,  he 
thought,  as  though  the  man's  whole  soul  was  crying 
out  in  some  sense  for  forgiveness  and  absolution  for 
an  injury  unwittingly  inflicted. 

"  The  one  thing  has  happened  now  which  must 
lay  the  past  bare.  I  must  meet  this  —  the  scandal, 


WITH  HIS  BACK  TO  THE  WALL    369 

the  shame.  My  life,  all  that  makes  life  worth  liv- 
ing, ends  to-night,  and  I  stand  before  you  with  the 
bare  soul  of  a  truthful  man.  You  have  known  me 
and  trusted  me.  You  —  and  others  —  have  put 
faith  in  me.  .  .  ."  The  voice,  for  the  first  time, 
faltered  and  fell. 

The  Judge's  head  had  been  bowed,  but  he  lifted 
it  now. 

"  God  alone  knows  the  secrets  of  our  hearts,"  he 
said,  heavily.  "  If  you  were  innocent  —  but  of  that 
how  can  I  say?  My  view  of  your  actions  since 
your  escape  —  those  which  may  affect  me  —  must 
necessarily  hang  upon  that  point.  I  could  believe 
that  you  are  not  a  burglar.  It  may  be  that  knowl- 
edge of  your  true  identity  will  presently  convince  me 
of  this.  And  I  might  be  persuaded  that  your  pres- 
ence in  the  Craig  house  that  night  was  no  more  than 
an  unfortunate  coincidence.  But  the  evidence  of  the 
shooting  appeared  at  the  time  irrefutable.  I  cannot 
conceive  that  the  mere  knowledge  of  what  you  are 
would  be  likely  to  affect  my  belief  in  that  respect. 
Your  statement  as  to  that  is  not  only  wholly  unsup- 
ported, but  was  —  and  is  —  bluntly  contradicted  by 
the  man  who  was  shot." 

He  ceased  speaking.  No  word  came  from  the 
striped  figure,  only  a  slight  movement  of  one  hand, 
expressing  at  once  resignation  and  futility.  Then 
the  hand  lifted  to  the  mask. 

The  Governor,  however,  stayed  the  action  of 
revealment  with  a  sudden  gesture. 


370     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

"  One  moment,"  he  said  quickly.  "  We  have 
gone  so  far,  I  should  like  to  go  a  step  further  — 
and  still  forensically,  if  you  please.  The  question 
of  identity  may  wait.  Do  I  understand  that  you 
deny  that  you  fired  that  shot?  " 

"  I  do." 

Craig  lurched  forward  in  his  chair.  "  This  is 
no  trial  court !  "  he  exclaimed  savagely.  "  He  has 
had  his  hearing  once." 

"  Be  silent !  "  commanded  the  Governor.  "  This 
man  is  in  my  hands,  not  in  yours !  "  The  warning 
was  heavy  and  vengeful,  and  it  held  now  all  the 
electric  energy  of  the  man  that  had  made  him  famous 
through  a  long  career  of  criminal  practice  before  his 
Governorship  days,  and  that  now,  unleashed,  domi- 
nated the  room.  Before  it  Craig  whitened  with  a 
surge  of  anger  that  sent  a  keen  probe  of  pain  through 
his  temple.  He  sat  back,  breathing  hard,  his  great 
fingers  working  on  the  arms  of  his  chair. 

The  Governor  was  leaning  forward  now,  his  hand 
on  the  table. 

"  If  I  recollect  —  and  I  think  I  do,  as  certain 
aspects  of  the  case  interested  me  at  the  time  —  there 
was  a  witness  to  the  shooting  beside  the  men  who 
were  assumed  to  be  your  comrades.  There  was  a 
woman  there." 

"  She  did  not  see  my  face." 

"  But  she  might  have  seen  the  face  of  the  shooter. 
Why  did  she  not  see  yours?  " 

"  I  wore  a  mask." 


WITH  HIS  BACK  TO  THE  WALL    371 

"  Is  not  a  mask,  in  itself,  a  badge  of  criminal 
intent?" 

"  It  was  not  mine.  One  of  the  men  dropped  it 
when  they  ran." 

"  If,  being  innocent,"  the  Governor  went  on, 
"  you  put  on  the  mask,  the  only  presumption  is  that 
you  did  not  wish  the  woman  to  recognise  you. 
Therefore,  she  knew.  Did  you  speak  to  her?  " 

There  was  no  reply. 

"  If  you  spoke  to  her,  it  was  when  the  man  who 
had  fired  the  shot  was  in  flight.  Your  words  to  her, 
verified  by  herself  —  if  she  were  reputable  —  would 
be  evidence  that  you  did  not  do  the  shooting.  Why 
then,  did  you  not  call  her  as  a  witness  ?  " 

The  long  French-window  had  swung  again  ajar 
and  the  cooling  evening  breeze  rustled  the  paper  that 
lay  upon  the  table.  From  the  far  road  there  came 
a  muffled,  long-drawn  cheer,  that  trailed  across  the 
tense  silence  of  the  room. 

"If  the  significant  fact  which  could  be  brought 
forward  at  your  trial  was  the  identity  of  this  missing 
witness;  if  her  testimony  would  show  that  the  law 
had  erred  —  if  it  might  operate  to  establish  your 
innocence  —  would  not  she  herself  justify  you  in 
revealing  it?  " 

The  silence,  a  longer  one  this  time,  remained  un- 
broken. 

"  Do  you  still  refuse  to  tell  the  name  of  the 
woman?  " 

"  I  do." 


372     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

The  Governor  leaned  to  the  table  and  picked  up 
the  pen.  But  in  the  instant  there  was  a  quick  step 
behind  them. 

All  turned.  Echo  stood  framed  in  the  window  — 
a  figure  in  filmy  white,  against  which  a  single  rose 
glowed  like  a  hot  ruby. 

"  I  was  that  woman,  Governor  Eveland,"  she  said 
clearly. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII 

THE    HEART  OF   A   WOMAN 

FOR  an  instant  there  was  a  blank  silence. 
The  Judge  sat  as  if  stunned,  one  hand  across 
his  lips,  the  other  clenched  on  his  knee. 
Harry's  breath  had  caught  in  his  throat;  he  stood 
taken  aback  and  confounded,  his  thought  shocked 
apart  and  dispersed  as  a  street  explosion  dissipates 
a  crowd  of  pedestrians.  He  forgot  all  else,  was  con- 
scious only  of  the  deep  fire  of  her  eyes  and  the  white 
surge  of  her  breast,  only  that  he  loved  her  and  that 
she  stood  on  the  brink  of  ruin  —  she  whose  name 
was  unspotted  from  the  world !  An  irrepressible  ex- 
clamation burst  from  his  lips. 

The  Governor  put  up  his  hand.  "  We  will  have 
the  truth !  "  he  said  sternly. 

He  sat  erect  in  his  chair,  his  bushy  brows  drawn 
together,  his  compelling  eyes  holding  Echo's. 
Slowly  he  turned  his  grey  head  toward  Craig. 

"  It  was  Miss  Allen,"  said  Craig.  His  smoulder- 
ing gaze  had  fastened  on  her  with  a  savage  joy. 
The  drama  was  rushing  now  to  its  inevitable  denoue- 
ment. 

The  crisis  had  come  to  Echo  with  fateful  sudden- 
ness. From  the  porch  —  whither  she  had  stolen, 
full  of  excitement,  to  listen  to  the  bulletins  from  the 

373 


374     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

east  room  that  spelled  victory  for  the  cause  of  Harry 
Sevier  —  she  had  glimpsed  through  the  French  win- 
dow that  gathering  in  the  library  —  the  striped 
masked  figure  standing  as  before  his  judges,  Craig 
with  his  bandaged  temple,  the  silent  listeners.  The 
mask  and  the  convict  garb  recalled  that  terrible  mid- 
night at  Craig's  house  and  the  later  episode  at  the 
jail,  blent  in  a  shuddering  composite,  even  as  the 
significance  of  the  scene  came  home  to  her  with  a 
sudden  horrifying  clarity.  It  was  true  then;  Craig 
had  returned  recovered!  The  escaped  convict  had 
been  retaken,  and  he  had  come  forward  to  repeat 
his  mistaken  testimony!  In  her  confusion  of  mind 
she  did  not  reason :  it  did  not  occur  to  her  that  here 
was  no  tribunal  of  justice.  The  suggestion  was  over- 
powering :  she  only  knew  that  within  that  room  men 
sat  again  in  judgment  upon  him  with  whose  fate 
her  own  peace  of  mind  was  so  entangled.  And  she 
knew  the  truth!  In  the  swift  surprise  the  shame 
and  horror  of  the  publicity  which  had  wrestled  with 
her  pain  of  conscience  during  the  weeks  succeeding 
her  visit  to  the  jail  and  the  baleful  certitude  it  had 
brought,  rolled  over  her  anew  with  the  anguished 
dread  of  Harry  Sevier's  contempt.  But  there  was 
no  wavering :  the  fight  had  been  fought  out  once  for 
all,  and  she  had  waited  for  Craig's  revelation  with 
outer  calmness,  though  with  her  blood  stilling  to  an 
icy  current  in  her  veins.  Two  things  had  come  to 
her  at  the  same  instant:  Craig  did  not  intend  to 
involve  her,  and  the  convict  knew  who  she  was.  As 


THE  HEART  OF  A  WOMAN        375 

she  leaned  against  the  sill  listening,  the  meaning  of 
that  obstinate  refusal  to  answer  had  thrilled  her. 
He,  like  Craig,  had  known  her,  then,  all  along.  Yet 
he  had  not  betrayed  her,  nor  would  he  betray  her 
even  now!  The  thought  had  spurred  her  resolve 
and  sent  her  forward  into  the  room  with  that  con- 
fession on  her  lips. 

She  came  forward  slowly,  with  what  seemed  a 
pathetic  weariness.  Her  face  was  without  colour 
and  there  were  bruised  shadows  beneath  her  eyes, 
but  above  them  her  amber  hair  was  like  sunbeams 
in  a  mesh  of  gold. 

"  Governor  Eveland,"  she  said,  "  you  have  known 
me  all  my  life.  I  do  not  think  you  have  ever  had 
cause  to  doubt  my  word." 

"  There  is  no  need  to  remind  me  of  that,  my 
child,"  he  answered,  gravely.  "  Neither  I  nor  any 
one  who  knows  you,  would  believe  you  spoke  any- 
thing but  the  truth." 

A  wan  smile,  in  which  was  yet  a  glint  of  pride, 
crossed  her  face.  "  Then,"  she  said,  "  I  have  faith 
that  you  will  believe  me  now.  I  went  to  that  house 
to  gain  a  thing  dearer  than  my  own  happiness.  No 
one  at  home  knew  it.  I  did  so  secretly  —  my  par- 
ents believed  that  I  had  gone  to  visit  my  aunt." 

She  paused  an  instant,  and  turned  upon  Craig  a 
look  of  mingled  scorn  and  aversion.  "  This  man 
had  once  done  me  the  honour  to  ask  me  to  marry 
him,  and  I  had  done  myself  the  honour  to  refuse. 
He  had  in  his  hands  —  how  it  had  come  to  him  I 


376     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

have  never  known  —  a  letter  which  he  threatened  to 
publish.  It  was  a  personal  letter  that  had  no  bear- 
ing on  the  present  —  one  written  before  I  was  born 
—  but  it  had  the  power  to  bring  pain  and  humilia- 
tion upon  some  one  I  loved." 

The  Judge  lifted  his  head;  his  eyes  were  moist  and 
shining.  "  That  is  true,"  he  said,  in  a  smothered 
voice.  "  I  knew  of  the  letter,  and  —  of  the  threat." 

She  did  not  proceed  at  once;  her  gaze  was  still 
upon  Craig,  and  she  waited. 

"  It  is  true  enough,"  he  said,  and  burst  into  jar- 
ring laughter.  "  Yes,  gentlemen.  It  is  the  fact. 
I  had  that  letter  and  I  would  have  made  my  price 
on  it!  "  He  looked  from  one  to  the  other  challeng- 
ingly,  the  arrogance  and  unscrupulousness  of  the  man 
leaping  in  his  eyes.  But  no  one  spoke.  Only 
Treadwell,  his  eyes  averted,  moved  his  chair  a  little 
further  from  him. 

"  Yes,"  she  repeated,  deliberately.  "  You  made 
your  price.  I  went  there  that  night,  to  your  house, 
to  beg  you  for  that  letter.  I  waited  for  you  till  you 
came,  and  when  you  would  not  give  it  to  me  other- 
wise, I  agreed  to  marry  you." 

She  faced  the  Governor  again.  "  I  was  to  marry 
him  within  the  hour.  Then  —  then  came  the  shot 
from  the  alcove.  I  was  mad  with  fright  and  with 
fear.  There  had  been  three  men  behind  the  cur- 
tains. Two  ran  —  the  man  who  had  done  the 
shooting  and  another.  The  third  — " 

She  broke  off  and  turned  to  the  motionless  figure 


THE  HEART  OF  A  WOMAN        377 

in  the  striped  clothes.  "  I  know  now  that  you  were 
the  third !  "  she  said.  "  I  thank  you  —  with  all  my 
heart  I  thank  you,  for  what  you  did!  " 

There  was  no  answer  from  behind  the  mask,  and 
she  again  addressed  the  Governor : 

"  This  man  must  have  heard  my  pleading  and 
pitied  me.  He  thought  of  me  before  he  thought  of 
his  own  escape.  He  took  the  letter  I  had  come  for 
from  the  safe  and  gave  it  to  me,  then  dragged  me 
to  the  door  and  told  me  to  run.  So  I  —  I  got 
away." 

The  room  was  so  still  that  one  heard  now,  through 
the  closed  doors,  the  muffled  click  of  the  telegraph 
keys  in  the  east-room,  and  the  voices  of  the  clerks 
calling  the  tally  of  figures.  Wistfulness  and  pain 
had  crept  into  her  voice  now. 

"  Next  day  the  newspapers  said  that  the  man  who 
had  fired  the  shot  had  been  arrested.  I  believed  this 
to  be  true,  for  though  I  went  one  day  to  the  trial, 
I  was  in  the  court-room  only  a  few  moments  and  I 
could  not  see  the  face  of  the  man  who  was  being 
tried." 

The  striped  figure  made  a  sudden  involuntary 
movement.  She  had  not  seen  him,  then?  Could  it 
be  that  he  had  been  mistaken,  that  she  had  not 
known?  Harry's  heart  began  to  beat  violently. 

"  I  believed  it  till  months  afterward,  when  I  came 
back  from  Europe.  Then  I  saw  a  ring  which  this 
man  had  given  to  his  lawyer.  It  was  like  the  one 
the  man  who  had  given  me  the  letters  had  worn  that 


378      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

night,  and  this  made  me  afraid  that  a  mistake  had 
been  made.  I  visited  the  Penitentiary  to  find  out. 
It  was  the  day  of  the  attack  on  the  warden  —  when 
this  man  was  stabbed  in  his  defence." 

Again  she  paused  and  her  eyes  shifted  to  the 
masked  figure.  "  You  must  have  known  me,"  she 
said  gently.  "  You  must  have  known  my  name. 
Yet  you  never  told.  Do  you  think,  whatever  it 
might  mean  to  me  —  after  what  you  did  —  that  I 
could  keep  silent,  if  the  truth  may  help  you  now?  " 

Sevier  had  no  answer.  Through  and  through  the 
maze  of  his  conflicting  feeling  was  stabbing  an  assur- 
ance sharpened  with  unbelievable  joy.  He  had 
been  thinking  her  cowardly  and  calloused  with 
worldly  selfishness ;  here  she  was  risking  all  —  and 
not  for  him,  Harry  Sevier,  whom  she  loved,  but  for 
an  unknown  convict ! 

The  Governor  was  looking  at  her  with  intentness. 
"  You  mean  that  he  is  not  the  one  who  did  the  shoot- 
ing?" 

44  He  is  not." 

Craig  sneered.  "  She  says  what  she  has  been  told 
to  say,"  he  said  with  dry  lips.  4'  You  will  under- 
stand why,  presently." 

44  Perhaps,"  returned  the  Governor,  coldly,  44 1 
shall."  Then,  turning  to  Echo  — 

44  How  do  you  know  this  is  not  the  man?  " 

44  This  man  is  tall ;  the  man  who  did  the  shooting 
was  short." 

"But  —  his  face,     You  saw   it  that  night  dis- 


THE  HEART  OF  A  WOMAN        379 

tinctly?     Would  you  know  it  if  you  saw  it  again?  " 

"  As  well  as  I  know  yours." 

He  said  no  more,  and  after  an  instant's  pause, 
she  went  on : 

"  Mr.  Mason,  his  lawyer,  had  told  me  he  believed 
that  if  the  shooting  could  have  been  disproved,  his 
client  might  have  been  cleared,  and  knowing  what  I 
did,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  must  tell  the  whole.  It 
—  was  not  easy,  for  while  that  night  I  had  thought 
only  of  keeping  the  secret  of  the  letter,  I  came  to 
see  later  what  the  world  would  say  of  my  pres- 
ence there.  And  a  woman's  name  is  all  she  has. 
So  ...  I  made  up  my  mind.  But  that  same  day 
I  read  that  the  man  had  escaped  from  prison. 
There  seemed  no  longer  any  need  then  of  my  telling. 
There  had  been  no  need  till  now." 

She  stopped,  and  stood  looking  steadily  at  the 
Governor,  her  hands  twisted  together,  her  face  white. 
She  was  far  less  vividly  conscious  of  him,  however, 
and  of  all  the  others — Craig,  her  father,  Tread- 
well —  than  of  one  whom  she  thought  far  away, 
but  who  now,  sometime  or  other,  must  know! 

The  Governor  spoke,  quietly  and  evenly: 

"  Let  us  go  back  to  a  matter  of  detail.  I  should 
like  to  picture  the  scene  that  night  a  little  more 
distinctly.  Where  were  you  standing  when  the  shot 
was  fired?" 

She  changed  her  position  slightly.  "  Here,  nearly 
in  the  centre  of  the  room." 

"  And  the  man  who  shot  from  the  alcove?  " 


380     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

"  There."  She  pointed  one  side,  to  the  bay-win- 
dow, before  which  now  stood  Paddy  the  Brick. 

The  latter  would  have  drawn  away,  but  the  Gov- 
ernor stayed  him  with  a  gesture.  "  No,  stand  where 
you  are,  if  you  please,"  he  said.  And  Paddy  the 
Brick  stood  still,  shifting  his  feet  and  ill-at-ease,  his 
narrow  eyes  turning  stealthily  toward  Craig. 

To  Echo  the  illusion  was  considerable,  for  the 
room  was  not  unlike  that  other  library  in  which  had 
occurred  the  scene  she  was  so  painfully  redrawing. 
There  was  the  same  effect  of  rich  bookcases,  of  desk 
and  picture-hung  walls,  and  in  lieu  of  the  alcove  was 
the  big  double  window  with  its  heavy  drawn  curtains. 
The  Governor  stretched  his  hand  and  tilted  the  shade 
of  the  lamp,  so  that  its  light  fell  full  upon  the  latter, 
lighting  the  cringing  face  of  the  stool-pigeon  before 
it. 

"  What  was  the  man  who  shot  like?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  was  middle-sized  and  thick-set,  with  light 
hair  that  sprang  in  a  cowlick  from  his  forehead. 
He  .  .  ." 

She  had  stopped  abruptly.  She  was  staring  with 
wide,  horrified  eyes  at  the  man  who  stood  blinking 
in  the  radiance  —  at  the  up-thrust,  sand-coloured 
hair,  the  rounded  shoulders,  the  red-rimmed  eyes, 
which  now  held  a  trapped  look  of  animal  fear. 

She  stiffened.     She  pointed  at  him. 

"  You!  "  she  cried.  "  You  are  the  man  who  fired 
that  shot!  " 


CHAPTER  XLIX 

THE   GOVERNOR  TAKES  A   HAND 

ON  the  startled  silence,  already  so  tense  with 
conflicting  forces,  the  accusation  fell  with 
the  suddenness  of  an  electric  shock. 

Its  effect  on  Paddy  the  Brick  was  instantaneous. 
He  drew  back,  his  hand  clutching  at  the  curtains. 
He  was  looking  not  at  Echo,  but  past  her,  at  the 
Governor,  who  had  risen  towering  in  his  place,  and 
if  ever  guilt  and  the  dread  that  is  confession  showed 
upon  a  face,  it  was  written  upon  his,  in  lines  unmis- 
takable that  he  who  ran  might  read. 

Craig  started  from  his  seat.  "  You  fool  I "  he 
snarled  at  him. 

But  Paddy  the  Brick  gave  him  no  glance.  The 
fear  of  the  hunted  was  upon  him;  he  saw  himself 
taken  in  a  snare,  the  witnesses  to  his  unpunished  act 
confronting  him,  and  clutching  at  him  the  hand  of 
the  Law.  He  turned,  and  with  one  desperate  jerk, 
tore  the  hangings  aside,  and  with  arms  before  his 
face,  plunged  bodily  through  the  shattering  glass  of 
the  bay-window  to  the  garden. 

So  abrupt  and  fateful  had  been  the  crash  of  his 
headlong  flight,  that  for  a  breath  it  seemed  as  if 
all  there  had  been  turned  to  stone.  Craig  first  found 
voice. 

381 


382      THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

"  Enough  of  this  farce !  "  he  cried.  "  Governor 
Eveland,  this  man  is  an  escaped  convict,  and  I  call 
upon  you  to  do  your  duty!  " 

The  Governor  turned  swiftly  on  him,  his  cavern- 
ous eyes  flashing  fire.  His  long  forefinger  shot  out 
like  a  javelin. 

"  You  coward  and  blackmailer  I "  he  blazed. 
"  The  man  you  brought  here  as  your  witness  was  the 
one  who  shot  you!  His  very  flight  is  confession. 
And  I  believe  you  knew  he  was  the  guilty  one!" 
His  deep  voice  rang  like  a  bell,  quick  with  indigna- 
tion and  contempt.  "  You  hate  this  man  be- 
fore you,  and  when  he  came  between  you  and 
your  plan,  you  tried  to  lie  the  noose  about  his 
neck!" 

Craig's  face  was  convulsed,  his  hands  moving  in 
distorted  gestures.  A  writhing  spot  of  pain  was 
bubbling  like  a  white-hot  coal  beneath  the  bandage 
on  his  temple.  He  burst  into  a  wild  laugh. 

"  Damn  your  beliefs !  "  he  shouted.  "  You  know 
who  I  am !  The  whole  state  knows  me !  What  I 
swore  to  I'll  swear  to  again.  You  can't  make  black 
into  white  by  your  opinions.  This  man  is  a  convict 
—  a  convict!  Do  you  hear?  He  is  under  sen- 
tence ..." 

The  Governor  had  seated  himself  at  the  table  and 
was  writing  swiftly.  He  looked  up  now. 

"  And  I,"  he  thundered,  "  am  Governor.  As 
such,  I  don't  care  who  he  is.  I  don't  want  to  know. 
It  is  enough  that  I  am  convinced  of  his  innocence, 


THE  GOVERNOR  TAKES  A  HAND     383 

as   I   am   of  your  perjury.     Here   is   his  pardon. 
From  this  moment  he  is  free !  " 

He  rose,  and  if  honest  indignation  could  have 
blasted,  his  look  would  have  blasted  the  man  who 
stood  livid  and  gasping  before  him: 

"  Let  me  tell  you  one  thing  more,  Cameron  Craig! 
If  you  dare  to  drag  his  name  or  that  of  this  woman, 
into  publicity  now,  to  satisfy  your  mean  revenge,  I'll 
see  that  you  are  indicted,  so  help  me  God!  We 
shall  find  whose  testimony  will  be  believed !  " 

Craig,  swaying  now  on  suddenly  numb  and  uncer- 
tain feet,  would  have  shouted  too,  but  his  tongue 
seemed  tied  and  a  heavy  torpor  was  clutching  all 
his  limbs.  He  heard  his  own  voice  come  forth 
ragged  and  broken: 

"I  — I  dare!     You  —  this  — !" 

Tottering,  he  lurched  to  a  chair  and  fell  into  it, 
even  as  the  Governor's  look  took  on  a  glare  of  out- 
raged astonishment  —  for  Craig's  face  now  was 
drawn  and  contorted  into  a  malignant  grimace.  But 
all  at  once  this  faded  out,  the  features  became  ex- 
pressionless, the  eyes  dull,  and  he  slipped  in  a  huddle 
from  the  chair  to  the  floor. 

He  lay  there  upon  his  face  without  a  word  or 
movement.  He  did  not  hear  the  Governor's  ex- 
clamation nor  the  voices  about  him,  nor  feel  the 
touch  of  inquiring  hands  at  heart  and  wrist.  His 
passion  had  undone  him.  The  dulling  pulse  beat  on, 
but  the  brain  had  once  more  ceased  its  functioning; 
nor  would  it  ever  again  quicken  that  inert  body,  at 


384     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

the  behest  of  the  great  surgeon  in  Buda-Pesth  or  of 
any  other. 

Outside  in  the  hall  there  were  confusion  and  won- 
dering voices,  as  the  Governor,  bending  his  great 
frame  to  the  burden,  with  the  aid  of  the  Judge  and 
other  willing  hands,  bore  the  helpless,  sagging  form 
to  the  car  that  waited  at  the  foot  of  the  drive  with 
its  attendants.  Before  he  followed  the  rest,  Tread- 
well  had  turned  and  held  out  his  hand  to  the  man 
in  the  convict  dress,  and  there  was  in  the  gesture, 
no  less  than  the  warm  clasp,  assurance  man  to  man 
of  steadfast  silence  and  a  friendship  that  was  to  be 
without  end. 

In  the  silent  room  —  in  a  quiet  that  seemed  curi- 
ously heavy  after  the  storm  of  ebullient  passion  and 
pain  that  had  swept  it  —  Echo,  sitting  stirless  but 
with  every  vein  throbbing  painfully,  saw  the  striped 
figure  pass  behind  the  big  leathern  screen,  to  emerge 
a  moment  later,  still  wearing  the  mask  but  clad  now 
in  the  conventional  black-and-white  of  masculine 
evening-dress.  In  his  hand  he  carried  a  striped 
bundle.  He  laid  this  on  the  red  coals  of  the  grate 
and  the  flames  leaped  up  to  wind  it  in  a  mass  of 
brightness,  shaming,  for  one  triumphant  minute,  the 
dim  light  of  the  shaded  lamp.  As  he  stood  with 
his  back  to  her,  looking  down  upon  the  smouldering 
tinder,  some  trick  in  the  posture  brought  her  a  quick 
thrill  of  wretchedness.  In  the  radiance  she  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands. 


THE  GOVERNOR  [TAKES  A  HAND    385 

"Echo!" 

She  started  and  looked  up  with  a  sudden  wildness, 
for  the  cry  seemed  weirdly  to  have  materialised 
from  the  very  substance  of  her  longing.  The  figure 
had  turned  from  the  fireplace  —  was  standing  before 
her  —  with  uncovered  face  I 


CHAPTER  L 

REVELATION 

*^T  -TOU!"  she  said.     "  You  — you!" 

y          "  Yes." 

-*-  With  her  eyes  upon  him  she  moved 
away  with  uncertain,  backward  steps.  When  she 
spoke  again  it  was  with  a  quick  breath  that  was  like 
a  sob,  and  in  a  voice  scarcely  audible,  with  breaks 
between  the  words:  "It  is  —  it  was? — you—" 

"  It  was  I." 

"You!" 

"  Yes." 

"All  — the  time?" 

"  All  the  time." 

There  was  a  silence.  She  had  begun  to  tremble 
from  head  to  foot.  Her  face  was  turned  away  and 
her  hands  were  shaking;  she  clenched  them  tight. 
Her  voice  fell  lower,  till  it  was  the  merest  whisper : 

"  You  were  the  —  the  convict  —  the  man  —  in 
Craig's  library?  " 

He  came  nearer.     "  Yes,"  he  said. 

She  put  one  hand  to  her  throat.  "I  —  don't  care 
to  understand  —  now.  I  —  I'm  only  trying  —  to 
realise  — "  She  paused.  The  doming  tinder  in  the 
fire-place  broke  and  fell,  and  for  a  last  instant  a 
yellow-ochre  burst  of  flame  threw  a  bright  golden 
veil  about  them.  Two  great  tears  rolled  down  her 


REVELATION  387 

cheeks.  "  Then  you,"  she  whispered,  "  then  you 
know  why  I  went  there.  You  could  not  believe  that 
I  _  that  I  — " 

"  My  darling !  "  His  arms  were  around  her  now, 
crushing  her  to  him  with  tender  fierceness,  till  she 
could  feel  his  heart  thudding  against  her  breast,  and 
the  blossom  crushed  there  held  for  him  the  scent  of 
all  the  roses  of  all  the  world.  He  bent  his  head  and 
their  lips  clung  into  a  kiss.  "  Never  —  never  — 
that !  "  he  murmured,  with  his  lips  against  her  cheek, 
"  though  I  must  be  forgiven  very  much.  I  was  blind. 
I  thought  you  knew  —  knew  that  it  was  really  I  there 
in  the  prison,  knew  and  were  willing  that  it  should 
be  1  And  all  the  while  .  .  ." 

"  And  I,"  she  whispered,  "  I  thought  you  had  gone 
away,  and  didn't  care  —  any  more.  And  all  along 
—  all  along  .  .  ." 

When  they  drew  a  little  apart  so  that  each  might 
better  see  the  other's  face,  the  wonder  and  miracle 
had  touched  them  both  with  a  kind  of  awe.  She 
looked  at  him  with  lips  that  were  still  trembling 
under  the  startled  glory  in  her  eyes.  "The  day 
after  that  —  that  night  —  I  went  to  your  office, 
saw  my  broken  picture  —  and  —  the  bottle.  I 
guessed  —  I  guessed — " 

"  It  was  true,"  he  said.  "  I  threw  away  my 
promise  to  you.  I  would  have  thrown  myself  away 
with  it !  But  it  was  not  to  be,  sweetheart !  I  have 
come  back  to  you,  dearest  —  dearest  of  all  the 
world!" 


388     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

So  they  stood,  haloed  in  the  lamp-light,  clinging  to- 
gether, swayed  and  shaken,  love  and  youth  and 
dream  melted  into  one  golden  eternity,  pouring  forth 
tender,  sweet  confessions  in  broken  words  and  si- 
lences, oblivious  to  the  passage  of  time,  to  the 
clamour  that  had  begun  to  rise  from  the  rooms  across 
the  hall  —  to  a  sound  that  came  over  the  tree- 
tops  of  the  avenue,  blazing  now  with  fireworks,  the 
sound  of  jubilance  and  marching  feet,  drawing 
nearer  and  nearer. 

At  midnight  the  great  porch  of  Midfields  was  hung 
gay  with  lanterns  and  bunting  and  Harry  stood 
watching  the  rear-guard  of  torch-bearers  stream 
down  the  drive.  The  battalions  had  gathered  like 
magic  when  the  blowing  of  whistles  announced  that 
the  returns  from  the  crucial  counties  spelled  victory 
beyond  peradventure.  They  had  swung  down  the 
main  street,  a  band  at  their  head,  a  shouting,  jostling 
army,  to  acclaim  the  Governor-Elect. 

With  his  friends  of  the  long  fight  —  Judge  Allen, 
Brent  and  a  score  of  others  —  about  him,  he  had 
spoken  to  them,  a  short  speech  full  of  feeling. 
They,  not  he,  had  won  the  fight,  he  told  them.  And 
the  victory  was  an  earnest  of  the  future.  But  the 
race  was  not  always  to  the  swift  nor  the  battle  to  the 
strong;  the  forces  they  had  that  day  vanquished 
would  return  to  the  struggle,  and  they  must  be  beaten 
again  and- again  till  the  State,  and  every  home  within 
its  borders,  was  free  forever.  Now  the  cheering 


REVELATION  389 

was  over  and  the  throngs  had  trooped  away  after  the 
band,  to  parade  the  denser  streets  of  the  business  sec- 
tion, while  the  Committee  lingered  for  an  exultant 
aftermath  in  the  dismantled  east  room. 

As  Governor  Eveland  stood  with  the  Judge  on  the 
porch,  looking  out  over  the  trampled  lawn,  Tread- 
well  came  up  the  drive. 

"  I  thought,"  he  said,  "  that  you  would  like  to 
know  about  Craig.  He  is  as  he  was  before  they  took 
him  abroad  for  the  operation.  It  is  unlikely  that 
there  will  ever  be  any  change  again,  they  think." 

They  heard  him  in  silence,  but  across  the  mind  of 
the  older  man  was  flashing  a  stern  epitaph  —  "  He 
hath  digged  a  pit  for  his  neighbour,  and  hath  fallen 
into  the  midst  of  it  himself."  Presently  he  sighed 
—  his  thought  had  shifted  to  the  unknown  man  he 
had  pardoned  that  night. 

"  It  has  been  a  singular  evening,"  he  said.  "  I 
am  sorry  Sevier  was  not  here  earlier  —  when  our 
convict  came.  Strange  that  even  you,  Treadwell, 
should  not  have  seen  his  face !  I  wonder,"  he  added 
musingly,  "  if  we  shall  ever  know  who  he  was ! ' 

The  Judge  shook  his  head  —  the  same  wonder 
was  in  his  mind.  Treadwell's  face  was  inscrutable. 
The  Governor's  gaze  strayed  up  the  long  porch 
where  at  the  further  end  a  girl  stood  with  the  Gov- 
ernor-Elect in  the  rosy  glow  of  the  lanterns.  He 
laid  his  gaunt  hand  affectionately  on  the  Judge's 
shoulder. 

"  Brave  and  true !  "  he  said.     "  When  I  think  of 


390     THE  LONG  LANE'S  TURNING 

what  she  told  us  tonight,  Beverly,  I  have  no  words !  " 
Treadwell  broke  the  silence.     He  spoke  with  a 
little  flush  mounting  in  his  face,  "  I  hope  I  need  not 
say  that  I  —  that  what  we  have  heard  to-night  — " 
But  the  Judge  stopped  him.     "  My  dear  Tread- 
well!"    he    said,    in   gentle    reproof.     "My   dear 
Treadwell !     We  are  all  gentlemen !  " 

The  Governor-Elect  and  the  girl  who  stood  beside 
him  lingered  a  little  longer  in  the  shadow  of  the  crim- 
son rambler.  Down  the  avenue  beyond  the  great 
gate,  the  flambeaux  clustered  and  faded  and  dimin- 
ished, the  band  music  had  throbbed  to  silence  and 
about  them  was  only  the  silver,  dew-silent  night. 
They  stood  in  silence.  The  old  house  behind  them 
was  full  of  jovial  voices  and  laughter,  and  every  win- 
dow was  glowing  with  lights,  but  where  they  stood 
was  quiet  and  peace. 

At  length  he  took  both  her  hands  and  laid  them  to- 
gether, beneath  his  own,  upon  his  breast. 

"'Hours  fly,  flowers  die"'   (he  quoted), 
"  '  New  men,  new  ways, 

Pass  by; 

Love  stays.' " 

He  lifted  the  hands  he  held  to  his  lips.  "  Do  you 
know  the  one  thing  that  has  come  to  me  out  of  it 
all?" 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured,  "  I  know." 

"  It  came  to  me  in  the  night,  last  night.  Up  to 
then  it  had  seemed  fate's  whipper-in  that  was  driving 


REVELATION  39I 

me.  But  then,  when  I  saw  the  gulf  opening  at  my 
feet,  and  saw  no  way  out,  and  ceased  to  struggle,  I 
knew  all  at  once  that  fate  is  only  an  empty  name; 
that  it  was  —  God." 

He  felt  her  fingers  quiver  in  his  clasp. 

"  There  was  an  Eye  that  watched  and  a  Hand  that 
overruled,"  he  said  slowly.  "  Even  the  evil  and  the 
hatred  —  the  temptation,  the  sin  and  the  pain  —  the 
penalty  —  It  overruled  them  all.  Drink  made  the 
man  who  shot  Craig  a  criminal  —  yet  but  for  that 
burglary  you  might  now  be  Craig's  wife!  Drink 
sent  me  to  Craig's  house  that  night  —  yet  but  for  that 
journey  I  could  not  have  saved  you.  Drink  closed 
the  prison  door  on  me,  but  only  there  —  I  know  it 
now !  —  could  I  have  mastered  it !  And  if  I  have 
won  in  this  campaign  and  if  I  sit  —  with  you,  my  dar- 
ling !  —  in  the  Mansion  on  the  Hill,  it  is  because  of 
what  I  learned  within  those  walls  —  the  knowledge 
of  what  drink  has  done  to  men !  " 

He  released  her  hands  and  looked  up  into  the 
heavens. 

"  It  shall  vanish  from  this  state,"  he  said.  "  And 
it  shall  vanish  from  this  Union !  I  am  as  sure  of  it 
as  if  the  sign  of  its  passing  were  written  there  in  the 
sky!" 

She  caught  his  arm.     "  See !  "  she  said. 

Far  away,  city-ward,  over  the  trees,  against  the 
deep,  dark  vault,  the  dazzling,  many-pointed  blaze 
of  a  rocket  paled  and  sank  into  the  darkness. 


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